


Back from the Dead

by Cheers



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-10-11 08:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 48,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20543459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheers/pseuds/Cheers
Summary: Short and shameless piece of Guy wish fulfillment fluff set in a post-series finale AU(written in March 2010, cross-posted from FFnet)…now, ten years later, continued and converted into a longer fic





	1. Chapter 1

Hell does not feel like it is supposed to.

There is no fire and brimstone, no cauldrons and whips. No screams of fellow sinners or laughter of demon torturers, but an eerie silence. He must be in purgatory. There is heat, but it feels like fever burning him from inside, not flames scorching his skin. There is nothing but fever and darkness, and claws of pain digging at his flesh, and the dry ache in his throat. For that matter, it feels just like being alive.

Except that sometimes in that murky haze, Guy feels fingers trailing through his hair, running along the scar on his cheek, stroking his hand, slowly, as if absent-mindedly – and thinks that he must be dead after all if such mercies are afforded him. A misguided angel must have perched itself by an undeserving sinner’s side to sweeten his fate.

But there is something else, too; those soft, gentle hands bring the occasional relief of damp cool cloth on his face, the comfort of cradling his head as water is poured into his mouth. The nimble fingers unwrap the soaked bandages from his body and bind him tight again with fresh fabric. He _must_ be alive then. Or could this be a delirious fantasy, could he be lying in the castle tunnels still? Is Robin still alongside him – or has he had time to escape – or did he escape only to die?

“Robin?” – he is not sure if he says it aloud or if the croaky whisper is only in his head. He is not sure if he is asleep or awake, alive or dead. But when he says the next words, his throat explodes in searing pain, and that and the strange, raspy sound of the words mixed with ragged breathing finally tell him that his time to die has not yet come.

“Robin, where are you? You must leave, save yourself… you cannot die…”

“Shhh”, someone soothes, and puts a finger to his lips – and a short while later bitter liquid is poured down his throat and he lapses into sleep again.

It goes on forever. He is trapped in a strange place between reality and delusion, dreams and nightmares. He calls for Robin still, albeit no longer sure if the other man survived.

“Robin, if you cannot make it, I know she is waiting… she always loved you,” he breathes, smiling at the thought of an angelic Marian basking in the eternal sunshine up above. “You will be happy together in heaven.”

But the only answer is silence, and the whisper-light touch of those disembodied hands.

Then a day comes when he snaps out of another delirious dream and stares dumbfounded at what coalesces, for the first time, into the solid reality of shapes and colours and angles and light.

He is in Locksley.

He knows the bed, the hangings, the walls. Even his crest is still affixed above the fireplace, as if he never left – for Nottingham, or for the Holy Land, or for the forest. Guy sits up, panicking at the thought that he may have gone insane and irredeemably delusional, but at that instant pain tears through his chest and stabs at his back, and when the dark spots clear from his vision, he is still in the same bed, in Locksley.

And somewhere nearby, someone is talking.

He is alone in the bedroom, but there are muffled voices in the hall below, two women, by the sound of it – he cannot hear what is being said but suddenly feels as if fire were coursing through his veins as one of the voices resolves itself into Marian’s silvery tones.

What madness is this, what unbearable sweet torture? It _cannot_ be real, but Guy had no idea that an insane delusion could be so delightful. But he cannot stay in its seductive embrace; he must sober himself with the truth, and so long as he survived, he must continue to bear his cross.

He crawls out of bed – for _crawling_ it is, to the point of going on all fours – and across the floor to retrieve clothes from a chest, the effort of lifting its lid almost making him pass out – and half stumbles, half slides down the stairs to the hall.

It is empty; the voices have moved into the courtyard, but the heavenly sound that reminded him of her still beckons from beyond the door. With a final effort, Guy pushes it open –

And falls on his knees on the porch, his eyes wide and transfixed.

“Marian,” he whispers, as if the name were a prayer, or a magic spell.

_What a great way to die_, he thinks before his mind gives in and he collapses unconscious to the ground.

***

He does not see her running back to him, does not hear her call his name in a desperate plea.

But she does. She cannot help it. Nor, for the life of her, can she understand it.

***

She _wanted_ to hate him. Saved by the grave by a grim ironic twist – local robbers who heard about two Christian nobles buried in the desert and braved the heat to plunder their bodies before they ran screaming away when they heard the dead woman gasp and brought the news back to town – she spent long and painful weeks convalescing as the Bassam household, under the diligent care of Saffiya bint Bassam whom she had come to know as Djaq, and in all that time, she wanted to rejoin Robin and she wanted to hate Guy of Gisborne.

Fate had afforded her neither.

She left the Holy Land a few weeks after Richard’s convoy when her wound had finally healed enough to allow her to brave the hardships of travel, secure in the thought that once she caught up with the king’s retinue, she would be swiftly on her way to England and Robin – only to be disappointed by a string of misfortunes. First there was a shipwreck that brought her and her fellow travellers, unharmed but considerably shaken, to the Italian coast, then there was the long and tedious wait for gold to arrive in exchange for moneylenders’ bills, then just as they were about to join King Richard, he fell prey to his enemies’ greed and vindictiveness and his own erstwhile arrogance when the Austrian Duke Leopold whom Richard had slighted in Acre took him captive. The royal retinue scattered, and Marian spent interminable weeks in Calais trying to persuade the cautious and indecisive William de Merlai in whose train she was travelling to make the crossing to England. Her beloved husband awaited her there, and her great offender – she still could not think of Gisborne as her enemy – was likely there as well, to be punished by her indifference, resentment, and above all by the imminent bliss that was to follow her and Robin’s reunion.

Except that indifference did not quite describe what she felt. Nor did resentment, for that matter.

There was bitterness, for sure, a great deal of it – for his cowardly surrender to Vasey, for his dogged attempts to kill the king, for his apparent refusal to distinguish between good and evil… but she found herself unable to hate him, or even blame him for stabbing her. She had seen his face the moment before he did it, and she had seen it after it was done. She had watched him die inside at her words, had watched the realization that her previous kindnesses to him and her seeming willingness to accept his love had been grounded in pretence sink in and burn him inside out - until he lashed out like a wounded animal that knew not what it did… and she had seen the heartbreak, sorrow and regret that had smothered and crumpled him in the next moment. It had been insanity, and she had provoked it. In a way, she had already dealt Guy of Gisborne his worst punishment twice, by telling him the truth and by dying as far as his knowledge was concerned. So the best she could do now would be to ignore him. It would be what he deserved, and neither too kind nor too cruel a fate. But surely they would see each other still.

She tried to suppress the satisfaction she felt from imagining their meeting, both his certain shock at her survival and his fresh pain at her being rendered forever unattainable. _Serves you right_, she thought. She tried not to think why she imagined that scene as many times as her forthcoming happy reunion with Robin, if not more.

It was a long and tedious wait before she could leave France, but it was finally over with the happy news of the success of the ransom negotiations and Richard’s imminent liberation, and a month later, Marian was finally home.

What a homecoming it had turned out to be.

***

As she reached Loughborough, two dozen miles from Nottingham, news came of a siege laid by Vasey, who had been believed dead by Gisborne’s hand. Despite everyone’s conviction, the fiend had survived and was back to wreak havoc on the city he had once ruled. Marian’s heart faltered when she heard that Robin and the gang, which inexplicably also included Gisborne, were leading the defenders. She reached Sherwood at a breakneck pace and raced frantically to the camp, only to be met by an unfamiliar friar and a man her age who claimed to be Robin’s half-brother and who took her to see her beloved just as he lay dying on the forest floor. She comforted him, summoning calm and resolve she did not know she possessed to make his final moments those of happiness and peace. But with Robin gone, there were no more barriers to her heartbreak. The world had gone black.

She knew little of what went on about her in the next day and a half, her every waking moment spent in hysterical sobbing. She refused to eat, or talk, or let herself be comforted. She had cheated death and arrived in England to be with Robin at last – and had barely arrived in time to watch him die. It seemed at times that her grief would suffocate her, and she fervently hoped for it. But in the end, when she could not cry anymore, she merely felt empty and numb and did not care if she lived or died.

Then at Robin’s funeral, while she was barely able to breathe and stood supported by Much, a bony blonde woman showed up with a heap of flowers and shocked her with endless uncontrollable wailing over her dear lover Robin – and even though Marian had not believed that her pain could get worse, it suddenly did. And then the wailing harpy started cursing Robin’s previous mistress, Gisborne’s now-dead sister who, she shrieked, had killed him out of jealousy. Marian felt chilled to the core. She and Robin had loved each other – how could he have betrayed her, even if it was only her memory, so soon? For the first time Marian knew what it had felt like for Gisborne when she had thrown her rejection in his face.

So when Archer edged his way awkwardly out of Robin’s funeral feast saying that he had to go to Locksley to see to his dying brother whom he had pulled out of the rubble earlier that morning so that he would not die alone, and Marian learned, to her shock, that Archer’s other sibling was that same Guy of Gisborne, she found herself offering to go with him. Her own pain had given her the charity that pushed her to perform a good deed towards Gisborne. She would assure him, in his dying moments, that she was alive and bore him no ill will. She would tell him that she had forgiven him. She would tell him that she cared still, no matter what she had said once.

She was surprised at how right the decision felt.

She was even more surprised to hear from Archer that Robin and Guy had made their peace before the siege, and to hear his sketchy but somber tale of the family feud that had once torn them asunder.

But nothing could compare to her surprise at feeling her heart twist in pain when she saw Gisborne, his face gaunt and grey, peaceful and yet profoundly sad – and to her stunned realisation that his dual wounds had been inflicted by a dagger and a sword.

It was staring at her in scarlet bleeding clarity, the gruesome symmetry of the wounds he had dealt her now visited upon him. But instead of vindication, she only felt sympathy. By all rights, she should have wanted him dead, or was entitled to it. Instead, she found herself unable to leave his side, save for a frantic trip to Nettlestone to find Matilda the healer. She stayed and kept vigil at Guy’s bed, helped clean and bandage his wounds and stayed with him through the delirious nights, listened to his entreaties to Robin, watched his reverent, almost blissful expression when he alluded to her – not daring even to pronounce her name as if he was afraid he would sully it – and through it all, she wanted him to live.

In a way, caring for him helped assuage her own pain over Robin’s loss. She was also forced to admit, as days passed by and her crying fits ceased, that the news of Robin’s liaisons, instead of multiplying her sorrow, had instead cushioned it, despite the initial added anguish. She loved him still and wished him well in heaven, she was even glad upon reflection that he had found solace – but she also felt as if she could leave him safely to eternal bliss while she stayed among the living. And in unguarded moments when her thoughts drifted back to her stay at the castle, to the many encounters she had had with Guy, to his awkwardness around her and his eagerness to please her and his constant need of her, she found herself caressing his unconscious body until she would catch herself and clasp her hands firmly in her lap.

Surely she could not have any attachment to him… could she?

***

She was doubly relieved when Guy had recovered enough to prove that his life was out of danger. It meant his survival, and it also meant the end of her vigil. She had become too confused and frustrated by her conflicting feelings and thought it best to leave before he could set eyes on her, for fear that she might betray too much weakness in his presence. She had talked to Matilda and was preparing to leave for Ripley Convent to stay there until she could rebuild Knighton with the rents of her estate, despite Archer’s insistent invitations for her to stay in at Locksley that were later supplemented by offers of money, materials, and workers. Truth be told, Marian wanted to spend time away to clear her head, for she feared that she was becoming too attached to a man she ought to avoid.

But when he staggered after her into the manor courtyard, the look in his eyes, of desperation and happiness and hope and pain and a plea for forgiveness, as if his whole life had brought him to that moment and ended there, as if the world beyond _her _did not exist, shattered her resolve in a single instant – and the fear that he had harmed himself too much by chasing her sent her hurtling to his side with entreaties for him not to die that he would have given anything to hear but, in his comatose state, was unaware of.

***

When consciousness returns and he calls for Marian even before he opens his eyes, the appeal is met by the same soft hand he recognises from his delirious days wrapping around his fingers.

“I am here”, she says, “I do not know why, but I am here”.

And when he hears those words and starts weeping, and takes hold of her hand to bring it to his lips, she does not pull it away.

_fin_

_._


	2. Locksley Manor, Easter Saturday, April 9th 1194

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a couple of years since I last wrote fanfiction; I thought I was done, and sure never thought I’d one day sneak back into my first fic-writing fandom to continue a one-shot I'd typed up ten years ago. But I’ve had this plot-summary draft sitting in my files since March 2010, abandoned when I scampered off to another, by now long-defunct fandom, and it has refused to go gentle into that good night, i.e. fade into the dim recesses of my hard drive. I guess I am looking for nostalgic closure for the characters and for myself by bringing it full circle. and maybe I am finally old enough to willingly write something that is not driven by an adventure plot. The original one-shot is still a self-contained standalone fic, even if it has now become the first of <strike>twelve</strike> <strike>thirteen</strike> fourteen chapters including fluffy epilogue.
> 
> We all know that the show took a ton of liberties with history, some justified, some silly. I’ll add a couple of comments to later chapters, but for starters, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to stick to the real timeline of the siege of Nottingham (25th to 28th March 1194, rather than the show’s high summer) and of the events that followed, which means that this plot starts in early April, and Richard, who led the siege IRL, was off to France by mid-May (ironically, where the show has Vasey besieging a pro-Richard Notts castle, reality was quite the opposite: Richard laid siege to a pro-John stronghold). It also means that for this plot, the fateful trip to Acre occurred sometime in late 1193 but was over well before Christmas (unlike, IIRC, in the show where it happened _over_ Christmas). But seeing how the show ended with Nottingham Castle in a pile of rubble, I had to tweak reality and have the real-life April 1194 Council meeting (plus a later fictional noblefolks’ gathering) hosted in York rather than Nottingham where it really happened – the show left me no castle to hold it in!
> 
> NB if you are looking for Robin fic, this one is not your cup of tea. This takes place after the siege of Nottingham, and Robin died at its end in this plot, as per the series. It could be fun to see Robin survive and get up to all sorts of mischief with Archer and the gang; but others have written Robin (and Robin/Marian romance) much better than I could. I was, and am, to put it bluntly, a silly old <strike>Richard Armitage</strike> Gisborne fan.
> 
> And lastly, I never leave fics incomplete if I start posting them. It may take a bit, but I’ll get it finished. And no, it won't take another ten years for me to put up the next chapter :D

[](http://www.freeimagehosting.net/commercial-photography/)

No, she did not imagine it like this.

She pictured her meeting with Gisborne more times than she’d care to admit; but her mind’s-eye scenes of their encounter invariably ran the range from Guy being bitter and resentful to Guy seeking her out and fervently begging for her forgiveness, and in all these eventualities, she saw herself happily reunited with Robin, and saw Guy, whatever his attitude, as his usual brooding, volatile and dangerous self. She had not imagined finding him near death, let alone nursing him back to life; had not imagined she would see him fragile, almost brittle, broken and helpless when he finally came around. With the armour stripped away, he is just a man in pain, his face gaunt and deathly pale, the dark shadows around his eyes speaking of suffering that long precedes the wounds of the flesh that have robbed him of his bodily strength.

He is lying propped up against the pillows in the canopied bed, his face shadowed but the familiar piercing blue eyes, now awash with a strange mixture of anguish and rapture, shine brighter than ever… until he turns away from her and lets go of her hand to cover his face. Before she can decide whether to stay or leave him to recover his composure, he lets out a ragged breath and she realises that he is sobbing, the silent convulsions racking his body, tears leaving shining trails down his cheek. She cannot quite bring herself to leave, but is unsure what to do if she stays.

By all rights, she should be pleased to see him humbled, punished, tormented; she should feel vindicated. In the preceding days, when she tended to him in his fevered state, it seemed pointless and uncharitable to rejoice at the suffering of an unconscious man who might not survive. Now that he is no longer in delirium, she ought to finally enjoy a measure of triumph; and yet the sight of him shattered and overcome with emotion sends an unexpected, irrational wave of sympathy washing over her.

“Guy.”

He shakes his head, his hand still covering his eyes.

“Thank God you are alive…” The words come out shaky and hoarse. “I thought I’d…” he does not continue, but the _killed you_ fills the silence between them. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he finishes in a near-whisper.

She has lived through enough loss in these past two weeks to let anyone, even Guy, indulge in heartbreak over a hypothetical one. Or maybe she just wants him to stop crying. She does not ponder the reasoning; she just reaches out to pull his hand away from his eyes, so that he is compelled to look at her at least for an instant, and repeats what she said to him moments ago.

“I am here.”

She immediately regrets her hasty gesture, as the quick beat of his pulse under her fingertips jolts through her body. It is vastly different from tending to him unconscious, now that he is awake and aware of her presence and staring at her as if she were, contrary to all evidence, a heavenly apparition. But she strives to keep her features composed, and does not relinquish the touch for another half a dozen heartbeats for fear of betraying her sudden turmoil.

Finally, to break the tension, she gets up and schools her voice to deliver a calm and matter-of-fact excuse.

“…And _you_ are overdue for the next portion of your draught. Let me go strain it and I’ll bring it right up.”

With that, she slips downstairs to pour her patient a fresh cup of Matilda’s concoction; yet her first order of business, once she finds herself alone in the kitchen, is to splash a generous helping of cold water onto her face.

_Dear Lord in Heaven, what is the matter with me?_

_*** _

Easter with its rites and feasting has come and long gone, and the fresh leaves have traded their delicate, translucent celadon hue for a deeper summery green, throwing sharper shadows when basked in the warm sunshine of late-spring days; but life in Locksley has drifted along at its own pace, seemingly lost in time.

To be sure, Archer has been busy making the most of his new station. In the immediate aftermath of the siege he was undecided between staying in the forest with the remainder of Robin’s gang and going off on new travels, yet ended up doing neither, instead settling in at Locksley Manor. At first it was just to take care of his wounded half-brother; but when, by a twist of fate and by the grace of King Richard, who took kindly to him at a gathering of local nobles that the king convened after leading the siege, Archer found himself named the new lord of Locksley, the prospect of a comfortable life proved tempting enough for him to give up the pursuit of adventure… to a degree, for he has since been exploring the forest and nearby villages for the best they have to offer. From what Marian can gather, he has been the eager recipient of many a wayward wife’s embraces; and while she has been enjoying his hospitality at Locksley and is immune from his attentions as his half-brother’s recently bereaved widow, she had to make a stern appeal to his better instincts to prevail upon him in that game hunting was off limits during the breeding season, a rule he was initially somewhat dismissive of.

Marian has had considerably fewer diversions by comparison; since she decided against a sojourn at Ripley Convent, she has kept to the manor, apart from an occasional ride to take food to needy villagers. William De Ferrers, the young and dashing courtier who replaced the traitorous Vasey and Gisborne’s mad sister as Sheriff, made a show of his magnanimity by allowing Marian to defer rent taxes from the Knighton lands until such time as her manor was rebuilt; but with the harvest still months away, the rents are at a low ebb, not enough to procure enough timber and hire the workers for the task.

Early on, she made herself useful helping Matilda look after Guy, her fellow guest at what is now his half-brother’s abode. After he first emerged from his protracted delirium just before Easter, he spent progressively longer spells awake. But if his shock at seeing her alive initially made her wary that he would make exaggerated demands on her time and attention, and prompted her to put some distance into her bedside manner, she was soon proven utterly wrong.

Robin would have made the most of this situation. Finding himself in her care, he would have played up his suffering, and would have continually groaned and grimaced so as to induce her to comfort and caress him. Sometimes she found it endearing; other times, she scoffed at his childish ways.

Guy, by comparison, is an exemplary patient; he never complains and never shows so much as a hint of his notorious temper. He bears Matilda’s ministrations and Marian’s admonitions with equal calm.

And he hardly ever talks.

Apart from greeting her when he sees her, and aside from the minor liberty he has taken up of kissing her hand on their first and last encounters of the day, he only speaks to answer her inquiries about his well-being; and more often than not, he does not answer them truthfully. On and on, he persists in telling her that he is doing well and is as good as fully recovered, a claim blatantly belied by the effort it takes him to accomplish the most mundane tasks, be it standing up or sitting down or taking a few paces, to say nothing of walking up or down a set of stairs. He suffers through it in dejected silence, though she catches frequent glimpses of him gritting his teeth or biting his lip; and yet he perseveres in his endeavours to prove that he needs no further assistance, and makes diligent, if not always successful, attempts to look as presentable as his poor condition will allow.

Most of the time he seems determined to stay out of her way, either hunched in silent prayer before an effigy of the Virgin in the tiny chapel room or playing with the stray dogs Archer brought in, ostensibly to guard the manor; so it falls to grumpy, sharp-tongued Matilda to become his principal caregiver, and Marian, instead of being worn down by emotional appeals, now ends up angry at his morose reticence, and has to rein in her exasperation at having to keep a close watch on him to second-guess the real progress of his recovery. At first she tried to persuade herself that Guy was merely reaping his just rewards; but as time wore on, seeing how humble and downbeat his demeanour was and how he kept torturing himself with relentless exertions, she saw little sense in maintaining a chilly attitude to punish him further; Guy did it for her aplenty. After a fortnight or so of this miserable routine, Marian herself starts seeking him out and bringing up mundane subjects; the weather, Archer’s escapades, the minutiae of village life that she picks up on her occasional rides. It distracts him somewhat, if less-gloomy looks are any indication; but his replies are invariably short and do little to keep up the conversation.

She even envies Archer, who seemingly has no difficulty conversing with his glum wreck of a brother, and appears to have better luck lifting Guy’s spirits. Watching them pass occasional evenings playing chess or Nine Mens Morris and hearing them engage in regular petty-but-playful bickering, with Archer mocking Guy’s bleak outlook and Guy making fun of Archer’s ineptitude at running an estate, is oddly entertaining; she almost wishes she could join in, but feels awkward doing so. When Archer leaves for Nottingham right before Ascension Day to greet the new Sheriff, one William Brewer, replacing De Ferrers whose seven-week tenure ended in him being lured back to the frivolous pleasures of the recently-pardoned Prince John’s court, Marian realises that even though he will only be gone for a couple of days, she and Guy both will miss his company.

***

“Marian!”

The anguished cry pulls her bolt upright in bed. After the momentary dizziness has passed, she fumbles by the bedside for the flint and firesteel to light the candle; she can see the first hints of the dawn tinge the eastern sky a lighter blue, but the house is still swathed in darkness. The servants are asleep in their quarters downstairs, and even if she could send one, she feels compelled to answer the summons in person. Surely Guy has been doing better lately; could it be that the insufferable man has deceived them this much and is still in agony? She strides into Robin’s old room determined to upbraid him for concealing his ailments…

...to find the offender fast asleep; or rather, in the grip of a nightmare.

In the murky light of the candle setting off the creeping pre-dawn twilight, his face is a ghostly mask of sharp angles and harsh contrast: ashen-pale skin framed by long raven locks, the gaunt cheekbones, the aquiline nose, the dark circles around the eyes, the thin white line of the scar running down his left cheek… and yet he looks peaceful. Whatever made him call for her in his dream must have passed. She should be going back to her chamber and back to sleep; and yet she lingers watching him, mesmerised by the stark beauty of his features even as she mentally chides herself for this lapse of fortitude.

“Marian… kill me, please, I beg you…”

This time she does not hesitate. Whatever it is that he is imagining happening between them in his vision, she has no intention of indulging it a moment longer. She shakes him awake, ignoring his injuries, and only stops when his eyes snap open and he starts at the sight of her.

“You were calling…” She cannot think of anything better to say. Her own words strike her as clumsy, yet her slight embarrassment pales in comparison to his profoundly mortified expression.

“Forgive me, Marian, I had no intention of waking you…” It seems that if he could vanish into thin air by sheer force of will, he would seize the opportunity.

“I know.” She is not sure whether to be cross, or amused, or sorry for him. “You had a nightmare.”

“I was… I thought we were back in Acre.”

No, she is neither cross nor amused anymore. But whatever awaits each of them, it is by now pointless to dwell on blunders committed in another lifetime.

She shakes her head. “It’s over, Guy. It’s all in the past.”

She meant it as a conciliatory token, a way to let bygones be bygones; but he looks oddly crestfallen.

“I know,” he echoes her words. “I do apologise for waking you. I assure you, I’m in no danger – “

_Here we go again_, she thinks, now he will launch into another lie about how completely healed he is. She does not wait to let him finish his declaration as she interrupts. “Don’t assure me of anything,” she insists, “just go back to sleep, and forget about the Holy Land.”

He bows his head in silence, but does not reach for her hand to kiss it; and considering how shaken she is, she takes it as a welcome respite. She blows out the candle – by now there is enough light to find her way – stumbles to her bedchamber and slumps onto the mattress, but sleep evades her.

TBC


	3. Sherwood Forest, Ascension Day, May 19th

The only good thing about Robin’s grave – about the very fact that he has one – is that it does not look, or feel, like a grave at all.

Between her and Tuck, they insisted, and managed to persuade the rest of the gang, that Robin would have wanted to forever remain in his forest home rather than be confined to a musty crypt or to the consecrated ground of the parish churchyard. Thanks to Tuck’s holy orders, he gave faith its due by sprinkling holy water on the gravesite, and later that week, Archer paid the Locksley parish priest and a gaggle of monks to hold a mass there… but afterwards, Robin’s resting place remained one of private mourning, known only to those closest to him. To all the rest, his spirit simply became one with the forest, immortal now in legend and lore. But Marian is here neither to mourn nor to reminisce.

The early morning sunlight has not yet lost its pearly softness, and the slanted rays seeping through the tall tree canopy still conjure up occasional wisps of mist, as she lowers herself from the saddle, alighting on the faded carpet of last year’s leaves. At first glance the forest is still and peaceful; and yet it is alive with the rustle of the breeze stirring the branches overhead, the poignant joy of springtime birdsong filling the air; it is constantly changing and yet timeless. They never talked about it, but she knows this is where Robin came after the siege was over, and this is where he wanted to stay. A simple boulder for a headstone with a forged iron cross behind it, without even a name; he was never given to vanity, and this way, it is as if he were never really dead.

She wonders what he would have thought of her now; of what internal turmoil has brought her here. It feels oddly as if she were stopping by at a friend’s house looking for a spot of advice, for the easy comfort of simple hospitality. Maybe he can see her still. In a bleak twist of fate, half a year ago, they thought it would be the reverse, with her watching and waiting for him from beyond death.

She misses him.

Fearless, resilient, resourceful. Mischievous, charismatic, noble, unselfish; kind and fierce and relentlessly driven. From what she has heard, Robin was like that to the end. She is glad she got here in time to say goodbye and assure him of her undying affection… even though, if she is honest, she probably misses him more as a friend, a leader, and a comrade-in-arms than a would-be husband. A soulmate more than a bed-mate. And because of this, in a way, the real Robin will always stay with her, as an idea, an ideal, that outlasts mortal flesh. But she misses the thrill and camaraderie of their escapades. Misses life as it was before Acre, when choices were simpler and the lines separating hero from villain were obvious and clear-cut… well, most of the time.

Now she is beginning to wonder if that pleasing simplicity had only ever existed in her mind, and the real world has always been a messy place full of imperfect people, none of them pure black or white… except maybe Vasey. That one, at least, lived and died an irredeemable villain. Not that it is much of a comfort.

When she pictured the end of her interminable, dogged journey back from the Holy Land, she took it for granted that Robin would be there to rejoice at her return. Took it for granted that he would have stayed faithful to her memory for more than a couple of months. Maybe she is being unfair, but now it feels as if the women who have shared his affections in the meantime had taken a part of him away from her even before he was gone.

But she misses him still, and the strange new plane of existence she is inhabiting makes it more acute.

So many people she knew and cared for are either dead or gone now that she feels adrift. Robin. Her father. Allan. Even the fiend Vasey, who had united the gang in their fight, is finally dead now. The new sheriff, William Brewer, who recently took over from his namesake William de Ferrers, is, by all accounts, a pragmatic and rather stolid man, considered an able and ambitious administrator, who knows that his far-reaching political aspirations are best attained by diligence rather than daring, and so is not prone to rash acts and Vasey-esque extremes of creative cruelty – and thus does not offer much by way of a compelling adversary. And with their leader dead, and in the absence of an obvious common enemy, the gang – those who remain – have now dispersed, despite their initial resolve.

Of the two original gang members to survive the siege, Much was the first to leave; distraught over losing his best friend and commander, he decided to join King Richard’s army and went with him to France. Little John hesitated longer between staying and leaving, but after a reunion with his wife and son, the forest camp proved no contest to the contentment of domestic life. Friar Tuck had argued the most in favour of staying in the forest, but when the new sheriff turned out to be more of a bookkeeper than a tyrant, he was also persuaded to move on and seek souls in search of spiritual guidance elsewhere. Kate, the shrill girl at Robin’s funeral, at first supported the friar, but thankfully, her mother needed her help with running the family pottery. Archer, likewise initially moved by the idea, ultimately chose comfort over camaraderie; and it was hard to blame him, a lifelong loner used to hardship, when spectacular good fortune finally fell into his lap.

The only people, it seems, still stuck in hazy limbo between past and present are Guy of Gisborne and herself. Half a year ago Marian would have declared it unthinkable that she would be willing to tolerate Gisborne’s company for more than was inevitable, even as he kept reaching out to her in his earnest attempts to both protect her and save his own tortured soul from floundering down the path of sin. How darkly ironic, then, that she became the unwitting instrument of his disastrous undoing; and yet now she has it within her reach to be the harbinger of his redemption, and instead of filling her with old dread or fresh resentment, the prospect lifts her spirits. Strange as it seems, Guy’s presence now is almost welcome, as a constant mooring her to any semblance of peaceful life; a comfort, even.

She knows she should not be seeing it this way. She should know better than let this dark and dangerous man haunt her thoughts. Except that he no longer makes any effort to do so, as he purposefully, resolutely avoids her and seems decidedly uneasy in her presence. She thinks back to the early hours of the morning, when he almost flinched away from her, and looked incongruously crushed when she sought to soothe him. What was it in her demeanour or in her words that had prompted such an odd reaction?

_It’s over, _she said; _it’s_ _all in the past._

Bloody hell.

To the dejected wretch that Guy has become, this must have sounded like the death knell of any chance of renewing anything resembling friendship… then again, by all rights it _should_ be. The best thing she can do is stay well away from him and forget the ups and downs of their turbulent past. Why, then, does it feel wrong to have accidentally slighted him? For whatever reason, it does; and she resolves, as soon as she is back, to speak to Guy and smooth over this trivial misunderstanding, even though she knows she should be doing nothing of the kind.

Yes, she misses the time when life was easy.

***

“Marian!”

The address is friendly and cheerful, but Marian was so lost in thought as her horse slowly retraced its steps back to Locksley that she nearly jumps in the saddle and has to hastily grab the reins to stay upright; and Archer, who had no intention of startling her, is quick to apologise, albeit short on gallantries.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you-”

“You didn’t.” Her cross tone is aimed more at herself than at Archer.

“What are you doing here all alone?” He is obviously in good spirits – he usually is these days, anyway – and if he noticed her touchiness, he chooses to ignore it. “Now that the gang isn’t here anymore, it’s not a safe place for a lady.”

This time she makes sure he notices her glare. “I can take care of myself.” Even when her only weapon is the sharp little dagger she wears as a hairpin, she can still wield it better than many men.

“I have no doubt you can. But if you fancied a ride in the forest, or…” he pauses as he realises the likely reason, “…felt like visiting Rob’s burial place, you could have waited until I was back –”

“I know, Archer.” She does not feel like arguing, especially as it might require an explanation of why exactly she felt the sudden urge to visit Robin’s grave this morning – an explanation she is not ready for. “How was Nottingham?” She hopes he goes along with the change of subject.

“It went well. Brewer’s a very reasonable man. And the city is getting kind of lively again.” Archer steals a sideways glance at her, and his next words prove that he is too much of an astute observer for her comfort. “You miss him, I know.”

Thankfully, his mind-reading powers have their limits. “I do.” She nods for greater emphasis.

“So do I. I’ve known him for barely more than a fortnight, but Robin had a way of… winning you over.”

_Tell me about it_, she thinks wryly.

“At least I have my surviving brother to get to know. Strange thing, family. Grows on you.”

She nods again, and tries to keep her eyes averted.

“Couldn’t be more different, those two, but they were like the best of friends at the end… and the crazy thing is, I heard they were the worst of enemies almost all their lives.”

Is Archer determined to torment her? Well, she’d better pretend to play along, or else he _will_ suspect that mourning Robin is not the only thing troubling her.

“They were, I know.” It is amazing, she ponders, that they were able to reconcile when they both believed Guy had murdered her.

“It’s even more amazing that they were able to reconcile…” Archer begins, and she starts in the saddle. Is he really reading her thoughts?!

“…considering how shabbily Robin treated Guy when they were children.”

She keeps her outward composure this time… well, mostly, if one does not count her jaw dropping open.

“What do you mean?” she asks, as calmly as she can.

“What, don’t you know?”

She racks her brain, but can think of nothing that would meet the description. “No,” she admits, “I never even knew Guy’s family had lived in these parts, and held a portion of the Locksley estate, until you told me.” When she went along with Archer to what they thought was Guy’s deathbed, he did supply the essential details of their complicated family ties. “My father was named Sheriff when I was ten, and we moved here from Derbyshire, and by that time the Gisborne family was gone and no one talked of them.”

“Well, no one likes to rehash a tragedy,” Archer counters, “except for those who suffered it, and they were either dead or had gone away by then. The other reason, of course” he continues with a distinct air of reluctance, “was that the villagers didn’t want to shame young Robin when he was trying so hard to stand up for them and to win their favour.”

“_Shame_ him?” She fights down a sinking premonition.

“For how he’d repeatedly wronged the Gisbornes, and almost got Guy hanged.”

“What?!”

Archer mistakes her shock for incredulous offence. “It’s true, I swear. At least that’s what Robin told me during the siege. I asked him why he and Guy had been fighting each other, and he told me the whole thing. Said it felt good to unburden his conscience, and that he hoped he and Guy would stick together now and get over the past. Well, they almost died together, anyway, so he kind of got his wish.”

“What happened, back then?” By now she has no time for Archer’s philosophical musings.

“It’s a long story…” he drawls, but his evasive tone does nothing to soften her resolve to learn the truth.

“Well, we still have at least three miles to go. Do indulge me.” She attempts a smile by way of further encouragement.

Archer’s immediate response is a heavy sigh.

“Well, if you insist… just don’t tell me afterwards that you married the wrong brother. Anyway, I am the only one of the three of us who is both alive and not messed up. And the best-looking one to boot.”

“Archer….” There is no need for her to inject extra menace into her voice; it is one shade short of murderous as it is.

“All right, all right.”

***

By the time they are nearing Locksley, Marian’s world has been pretty thoroughly shaken up yet again; if it was a challenge before to distinguish between a newly-discovered multitude of shades of grey in those around her, the task has become near insurmountable now. Not only had her beloved husband indulged his roving eye while in the midst of mourning her; not only was he prone to occasional fits of fury that rivalled Gisborne’s worst outbursts; now she has to live with the unhappy knowledge that the fearless and principled Robin she had come to know used to be a cowardly and entitled spoilt brat of a boy who thought little of hiding behind a fellow’s back even at the cost of the other’s life, and was quick to betray an honourable but afflicted man to an angry mob. If Robin were here now… forget seeking his guidance; she would have happily given him a piece of _her_ mind. Or two, or three. No wonder, indeed, that Gisborne was constantly infuriated by Robin’s exploits, and viciously rejoiced at having gained – regained – ownership of Locksley land; and no wonder Guy himself never spoke of the source of this enmity, after the humiliation he had endured through no fault of his own. Robin, on the other hand… had he confided in her enough to share this sorry tale, she might have looked more charitably at his juvenile lapses of judgement; but instead he chose to conveniently omit any mention of it. Well, it is too late to be angry at Robin; he still lived and died a hero, and Heaven shall be his judge now, not mere mortals like her. But now that they are approaching the Locksley palisade, she is even more eager to make amends to Guy for her unintentional rebuke earlier that morning.

_Talk of the devil._

Her first reaction when she sees Guy riding toward them is fear… not _of_ him, but _for_ him. A naturally graceful rider, he is now hunched awkwardly in the saddle and, instead of setting his horse to the habitual gallop, is plodding along at a desolate trot; and his set jaw and white-knuckled hands gripping the reins are an eloquent clue that even this unhurried pace is taxing for him. _What are you doing riding around, you damn fool?! You’ll fall off your horse and break your stubborn neck, _she wants to shout, but instead has to go through the tedious pleasantries of mutual greeting and wait until Guy and Archer do likewise… _Archer_, she notes bleakly, _who does not seem at all surprised at the sight of his brother riding off_.

She seizes her chance as soon as there is the tiniest lull in the exchange.

“Guy, I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to-”

“I am fine, Lady Marian, I assure you.” Of all things, it is the _Lady_ that somehow stings the most. “I’ve taken advantage of your kindness for far too long as it is.” Seeing her dismay, he continues in a softer voice. “You’ve been nothing but gracious and supremely patient all this time, and I’ll never forget – “ he breaks off, but by now she is too distraught to notice; had he continued, she might not have heard much, anyway.

Whether to rescue her or to torment her further, Archer chooses this instant to jump in, in a nauseatingly upbeat tone.

“Well, you sure are in a hurry to get to your duties. Good luck, brother, and do watch out on the road. You may be healed but you’re not looking terribly well if you ask me… I’ll come see you next week,” he finishes, ignoring Guy’s scowl.

At least it means he is not riding off to parts unknown.

“I might hold you to it, you know,” Guy retorts, before casting a sombre bow in her direction. “My lady.”

With that, he flashes them both a tight-lipped and rather tortured grin, tosses back his long locks, and rides off; and Marian is left to trudge back to Locksley alongside Archer, filled with an acute and utterly irrational sense of loss.

.

TBC

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't take ten years, like I said :P  
This chapter was my least favourite in the plot, so now that it is out of the way, I am looking forward to typing up the remainder; the only things holding me back for the next couple of weeks will be work backlog and a long weekend trip in 10 days' time. But I *will* do my best to update in the meantime, and I thank the kind readers who have taken an interest in the unexpected sequel to an old story.


	4. Locksley Manor, Ascension Day, May 19th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be half a chapter; or rather, about a quarter of a chapter; but I have a thing for Marian and Archer talking :P So when what should have been a short-ish intro turned into a decent-sized bit that is clearly distinct from the main chapter events, I figured I'd split it off and post it, and count the chapter total as thirteen rather than twelve. I'll post the rest of it tomorrow.

“What’s wrong?”

They have reached the manor by now, and Archer’s query, no matter how unwelcome, is unsurprising considering that she has not said a word in the meantime.

Everything_ is wrong, and by the looks of it, you helped make it worse_.

She bites her tongue; whatever role he played in Guy’s departure, it is unlikely he did it to spite her. And if she keeps her temper in check and asks the right questions, she may find out what exactly is going on.

“I’m just tired. Woke up too early and couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“What, you and Guy, both?”

There is no getting away from the subject. Then again, it may be her chance.

“What happened to _him_? And what are those duties you mentioned that he’s taking on?” She does her best to sound casual.

“Ah, _that_.” She really does not like Archer’s tone, or the sideways look he gives her. Like he has figured out the reason for her fit of pique. And now the little brat is taking his sweet time drawing out his answer. “Well, it’s kind of a long story, too.”

After a moment or two of braving her stony stare, Archer gives in.

“I’d had enough of hearing Guy harping on about how he deserved to hang for having been Vasey’s henchman when he came to his senses. So I figured it wouldn’t hurt to put in a word with His Highness at last month’s Council, about my poor wounded brother who’d risked his life and limb fighting alongside his loyal servant the late Earl of Huntingdon to defeat the traitors who had besieged Nottingham Castle.”

Her frustration with Archer has dropped a dozen notches. _Of course_. She missed the Council herself; back in early April, Guy’s condition was too precarious for her to risk the trip to York to pay obeisance to the King. Archer has no way of knowing Guy’s treasonous past vis-à-vis Richard, but his fortuitous intervention must be why no one came looking for Gisborne to arrest him; for all his legendary mercy to fallen enemies, Richard would not have chosen to spare his would-be assassin had it not been for Archer’s timely account of Guy’s heroic turn at the siege.

“And the King decided that to prove his reformed good character, Guy should work with De Ferrers to help design the defences for the new castle.”

That way, the new sheriff would keep an eye on Guy and report to Richard if anything were amiss, she figures.

“When I told Guy about it, he seemed kind of disappointed not to have been given a death sentence, but decided it would do for now.” Archer says it with a hint of mockery, taking it to be another manifestation of Guy’s gloomy disposition, but Marian knows that the death sentence part was closer to reality than Archer may imagine.

“Except that De Ferrers left his post to Brewer a week ago, and we weren’t sure if the deal was still on.”

“_We_?”

“Well, by now Guy was really taken with the idea, and told me to ask Brewer when I saw him – “

So Guy has been planning this, and Archer has been happily plotting with him, without a word to her.

“You do realise he is still in terrible shape!” Marian snaps. “He is your brother and you’re putting him in danger.” Hopefully, Archer will put down her outburst to the exasperation of a nurse whose best efforts have been sabotaged.

“Have you tried arguing with him?” Archer mutters back.

“Yes! Many times.”

“Any luck?” he prompts, still certain of the answer.

She looks away. Lots of luck, coming to think of it; more often than not, she did succeed in twisting Guy’s plans to her will when she set her mind to it.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

Her brother-in-law may be a good three years her junior, but his turbulent life has left him with well-honed powers of observation, and her moment of reflection was not lost on him.

“What is it with you two? First he tells me to go look for you in the forest the moment I get back, then he says he’s off to the city to leave you in peace, and now you’re angry with me for not stopping him.”

Marian is not sure she is not blushing. She does her best to look Archer in the eye, but her usual capacity for glib excuses is failing her. Maybe it’s for the best. He’d probably find out the truth sooner or later.

“As you say, Archer, it’s a long story.”

“Well…?” he prompts when he sees she is in no hurry to continue.

“You see, Robin and I were engaged before he went on the Crusade. And when he told me he was leaving I broke it off. And then while he was away, Guy came here with Vasey and… started courting me.” She pauses; it all sounds pretty mundane so far, but she is not sure how much of the rest of it she wants to disclose. Or rather, how much she can get away with _not_ disclosing.

“And you?”

“And I… well, I was flattered. But then Robin came back, and it all got really complicated.”

“And you chose Robin.”

That is the easiest way to sum it up.

“Yes.”

“And now you want to get back into Guy’s good graces.”

She is not sure she would put it that way… or rather, not sure she should be feeling that way; but it is a good deal closer to the truth than she’d care to admit.

“I don’t know, it’s just… you see, we’ve both done a lot of things… He hurt me too. But I – I don’t know –” She is really floundering now. “I wasn’t always fair to him. He often deserved it, but I wronged him too.”

“Sounds like a typical pair of lovebirds to me,” Archer quips; and the worst part is, she cannot detect any mockery in his voice.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake shut up,” she exhales in an exasperated huff. “It’s just… “

“Complicated.”

“Well, yes.”

“Well, if I’d known, I’d have tried to talk him into sticking around.”

This is a reprieve. She had expected ridicule, perhaps even disapproval, from Archer. She had not thought he might be willing to help her. Not that it changes the present outcome.

“You said it yourself, about arguing with him.”

“Well…” Archer drawls with a hint of a grin. “He’ll be back here sooner or later, and I’ll be happy to give it another shot.” He winks at her. “Or lock him up and leave him at your mercy to air out your grievances.”

She could, of course, pretend to be offended; but what is the point?

“Thank you, Archer.”

***

_Sooner or later_, Archer said; it has certainly proven to be the latter, for Whit Sunday went by, and then Trinity and Corpus Christi and now Midsummer is upon them, and Gisborne is nowhere to be seen. Nowhere in the vicinity of Locksley, that is, for as far as Marian knows, Archer sees him regularly in Nottingham, where he rides about weekly, and they have become regular patrons at the Trip Inn, where they go for the local ale; but all Marian gets out of it are Archer’s apologetic scowls as he pretends to be cross with his elder brother for refusing to come visit him at the manor. Come visit _her_, she suspects; and she’d rather Archer stopped playing coy and just told her whatever it is Guy is really saying about his reasons for not wanting to see her. Not going to happen; brothers and all that.

She is beginning to feel rather dejected when, two days before St John’s, Archer, affecting a patently casual tone, mentions to her that Sheriff Brewer has expressed an interest in meeting her.

“What does he want with me?” She is genuinely curious; as far as she knows, Brewer has plenty of irons in the fire and should be too busy advancing his career to take a close interest in local landowners unless they are seriously wealthy or politically important; and she is neither.

“It’s kind of more a matter of what _you_ may want with _him_.”

She does not like it when Archer is being evasive. It reminds her uncomfortably of her own conduct a year or two ago, and finding herself on the receiving end of such an attitude, she now knows how exasperating it can be.

“Enough with this air of mystery, Archer. Explain yourself.”

“Last time I was in Nottingham I ran into Brewer while waiting for Guy, and happened to mention that my sister-in-law – you, that is,” he adds unnecessarily, as if he had more of them – “is staying with me because her own manor was destroyed.” Thankfully, Archer does not know what, or who, caused it, or else he’d be going on and on with the _lovers’ tiff_ taunt about her and Gisborne. Worse still, he’d probably be teasing Guy about it, too.

“And?”

“Well, he was duly sympathetic.”

“And how does this turn into him wanting to meet me?”

Archer looks somewhat uncomfortable, but only a tiny bit, and it only lasts an instant.

“I was thinking _you_’d probably want to meet _him_,” he amends, mimicking his earlier inflection. “Now that he knows about your sad situation, you could ask him to help you amass the funds for rebuilding. Not that I want you to move away,” he adds hastily, “but I know you’d like to have your home back.”

It is true that she has been spending more time lately idly sketching plans for how she would rebuild the manor, ranging from a faithful, room-for-room recreation to a completely fanciful new plan. In the end she decided upon a midway solution; a house that would look the same on the outside and preserve the best features of the old one, like the sweeping staircase, but would reflect her own taste more in the internal layout, such as enlarging the downstairs hall, adding a couple of extra windows regardless of the cost of glass, and repositioning the master bedroom to face east rather than west: it would be hers now rather than her fathers, and she liked being woken up by morning sunshine.

But while pondering these choices entertained her, she has been resigned to a long wait until any of this could happen in practice. Even with the rent tax postponement that De Ferrers had granted her – assuming Brewer did not overturn his predecessor’s decision – the first she would see of substantial rent money would be toward Assumption of the Virgin, mid-August; and by the time she had enough to start the project, it would be getting too cold to make much progress. So work would probably only start next spring, and it would be close on a year from now before she could move in.

“I would, but I already have the tax deferral permission. I don’t know what else I could ask for – “

“You could ask for a loan,” Archer supplies.

“A loan? From the shire treasury?”

“Exactly.”

“And you think he’ll just grant it to me?”

“Do you know of reasons why he wouldn’t?”

“King Richard’s push for more taxes to fund his war in Normandy, for one thing,” she suggests, unable to suppress the scowl. The great King Richard was yet another victim of her recent worldview change; for all his admirable traits, for all his courage and gallantry and mercy and magnanimity, he is rather more interested in asserting his command of French domains, no matter what it may cost his English reign, than in ruling this same reign.

“You can offer to pay interest,” Archer suggests. “It will work out better for you in the end. You can buy good timber cheaper now when it is easier to dry and transport, and with the harvest still months away, you can hire workmen for less to do most of the work. And by the time it comes to the carpenters for the roof and the inside, you’ll have the walls up, so they can stay there in the autumn and get the work done faster.”

It sounds tempting, though rather uncertain.

“It does kind of make sense,” she ventures.

“Of course it does. And I know my numbers, so I can help you draw a proposal for Brewer to show how you plan to repay it. Besides,” Archer adds, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “you might, you know, get a chance to see some old acquaintances in Nottingham.”

Maybe it really just occurred to Archer; or maybe this was his real motive for coming up with this idea. Either way, she does not feel like questioning his reasoning.

“Very well; I’ll give it a go.”

.

TBC

.


	5. Nottingham, St John’s Day, June 24th

She never liked Nottingham. The city has always been grimy and crowded, its narrow, mud-encrusted streets plunged into perpetual shadow and reeking of rot. As a child, when her family moved to Nottingham, she mostly kept to the castle, which she treated as a private playground. After her father resigned, she was glad to find herself in Knighton, in the tranquil beauty of the countryside, and became a keen rider as she explored the fringes of the forest and struck up friendships with the tenants of nearby villages. But for all her old dislike of Nottingham, seeing it recovering from the devastation of Vasey’s assault is a welcome prospect.

She declined Archer’s offer of riding along with her, preferring to make her way in silence to collect her thoughts before meeting Brewer. Asking for the loan may be something of a pretext, and she is far from certain of the outcome, but Brewer looks to be in Nottingham to stay, and striking things off with him on the wrong note could come back to bite her later.

The first thing she notices from the distance are the sections of new, light-coloured stone in the city walls where the attackers’ bombardment had left gaping breaches. Some of the turrets, she can see, have been built up in height to extend the range of vision of the guards manning the walls, and a new barbican has been added, designed with double walls so as to no longer allow anyone entering the city to proceed straight through the gate, instead having to circle a smaller internal keep studded with arrowslits, an effective measure to stop would-be attackers. If anyone were to come here for easy plunder in the belief that Nottingham had been rendered defenceless by the siege, they would soon learn their mistake.

Inside, however, the city still resembles a construction site. Piles of rubble in place of destroyed buildings are being carted away, but for now have been mostly pushed aside to allow passage in the streets. Where the previous or new owners can afford it, new buildings are slowly going up. The stones of the old castle have been hauled together to form a sort of low hill of weathered grey, with a slightly smaller pile of new stone blocks beside it. The site where the castle stood has been cleared, and the foundations of the new structure are taking shape, if only a few feet tall so far.

The new castle is obviously not in a condition yet to house anyone, let alone the Sheriff and his family; and she follows Archer’s instructions by inquiring after the whereabouts of Thomas Cleeve’s house, and is presently directed to it. With Cleeve, the local wine merchant, often away on business and his family understandably preferring to reside in a second home in the prettier surroundings of a nearby hamlet, he wisely decided to augment his income by renting the city residence to the Sheriff who found himself in need of accommodation. The fact that Cleeve became the monopoly supplier of wine to the Sheriff’s household at about the same time could be seen as rather a natural consequence.

The house is bulky and ungainly on the outside, but once the servant opens the door and she steps in, she can appreciate the spacious, if rather pretentiously decorated interior. Brightly coloured brocade hangings adorn the hall, a massive fireplace dominates the far wall, the floor is carpeted in bearskin, and the carved and painted ceiling sprouts an elaborate chandelier of polished bronze.

“I beg you to wait here, milady.” The man bows and gestures her to a heavy oak chair. “I shall tell the Sheriff you are here to see him.” She did not need to introduce herself to him; coming to think of it, she is better known to most Nottingham citizens than Brewer.

She imagined that the gaudy decorations came with the house and reflected Cleeve’s tastes; but when she takes her first look at Brewer, she is not so sure anymore, seeing how well he blends in. A stocky middle-aged man, he is dressed richly but perhaps too brightly for his age in a long burgundy cote with gold embroidery and sable trim. His deep-set, shrewd, vaguely green-ish eyes study her for a moment before he addresses her.

“You are the Lady Marian of Knighton.”

She gets up and curtseys to him. “Indeed I am, my lord.”

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady. And welcome back to Nottingham,” he answers her with a short bow. “I’ve heard much about you.”

She hopes that if it is true, whoever he talked to happened to be on her side.

“And I of you, my lord. My father spoke very highly of you during his own tenure as Sheriff here.” It is at best an exaggeration; if Edward ever mentioned Brewer, it was to marvel at the other’s impatience to take on more duties, push for his own advancement as a baron of the Exchequer, and buy more lands in his name. But a touch of flattery will not hurt, and lets her conveniently remind him of her own close acquaintance with the Sheriff’s office.

“Ah, yes, Sir Edward.” She cannot tell if Brewer’s recollections of her father are good or bad; as with his first remark to her, he makes a point of letting her know he knows things about her and hers, without betraying his opinion. “My condolences on his passing.”

“Thank you, my lord.” At least he is capable of common courtesy, unlike his predecessor.

“And, of course, on your husband’s untimely demise.”

“Thank you.” She bows her head low and makes sure he registers her sorrow. She is here to ask for a favour, and it is not the time to flaunt independence and endurance. Maybe she should have made a bigger show of her widow’s station; as it is, she did her best to strike a balance between making the necessary concessions to her widowhood in the dark blue colour and minimal embellishments of her gown and a show of status in adorning it with a belt richly embroidered in silver thread and gathering her hair in a matching silver thread crespine under the veil. “Not a day goes by that I do not mourn him.”

“As you would, indeed. I could not possibly imagine my grief if anything were to befall my beloved Beatrice.” One curious tidbit of gossip about Brewer that she happened to eavesdrop on in her father’s private conversations concerned Brewer’s marriage to the former mistress of another. Lady Beatrice de Valle had consorted with the Earl of Cornwall, Reginald de Dunstanville, to whom she had borne an illegitimate son; this did not stop Brewer from marrying her and fathering several children with her. Whether this was due to the lady’s beauty or wealth or connections, she never found out; but it struck her as an oddly human instance in an otherwise unexciting characterisation of a striving politician. And it may provide her with yet another opportunity for flattery.

“I understand that Her Ladyship is a famed beauty,” she ventures, hoping that the real Beatrice is not, at least, so singularly ugly as to make him misconstrue her intended compliment as mockery.

She seems to be in luck, for Brewer’s stolid features soften in a smile. “It is fair to say so.” He looks back at Marian. “You may be the judge of that, my lady, if you would do us the honour of joining us for dinner. We usually dine at about this hour.”

Marian’s own smile is unforced. This will give her a less formal opportunity to establish rapport with the Sheriff, and if she is lucky, perhaps she can strike up a good acquaintance with his wife, too. She will have to hurry back to Locksley to make it before nightfall – she doubts there are extra sleeping quarters in Cleeve’s house when the entire Sheriff’s household resides here now – but with the long summer days, it is not much of a constraint. And maybe she can wait until after dinner, when Brewer’s wits have been mellowed by food and wine, to broach the matter of the loan.

“I would be greatly honoured. Thank you, my lord.”

“We are also usually joined by my lieutenant, if he is back by this time,” Brewer adds. “I believe you know Lord Gisborne.”

Marian struggles not to betray any emotion. This would be a perfect opportunity to see Guy without having to chase him around the castle foundations, and she is happy for it; and yet she fears his possible reaction, if he is dismayed at finding her here, with Brewer and his wife witnessing the tableau.

She flashes Brewer a careful smile. “Yes, I do know him. He was here with the previous Sheriff…” Probably not the most favourable recommendation. “But I understand he did not have much choice under the circumstances, and we spent quite considerable time in each other’s company.”

She realises she probably said too much when Brewer gives her a sideways look.

“He often took it upon himself to look after my safety,” she adds, by way of an explanation, “and he was always diligent about his duties.” Which was not always to her advantage, but all that is no longer relevant.

“So I gather,” Brewer rejoins. “I have likewise found him very diligent and quite knowledgeable in the way he set about putting up the defences.”

And, Marian figures, Brewer undoubtedly appreciates the fact that unlike his own vaulting ambitions, Guy’s career goals centre on not getting an execution. Or rather, she muses sourly, on getting one, but on his own terms.

“Ah, there he is.”

She follows Brewer’s gaze out the open window. _Talk of the devil_, once again. Brewer has probably noticed her eyes flying wide, but there was nothing she could do about it.

Her first thought on seeing Guy this time is relief at how obviously less sickly he is looking. In just over a month since he left Locksley, he has regained his usual grace and confidence in the saddle, his back straight and his head held high. His deathly pallor has given way to a brighter complexion, the result not only of improving health but of having spent much of the preceding month in the open air. He is much more smartly dressed than she recalls from the time before the Acre trip, the fashionable, expensive-looking fitted leather jerkin accentuating his broad shoulders and trim figure to full advantage. Yet, she notes sadly, he is still awkward getting off his horse, and takes his time walking up the half dozen steps to the porch. She knows too well the nagging sensation of a healing wound constraining one’s movements, but the fact that he who visited it upon her is now suffering from the same condition gives her no satisfaction.

He did not see her and Brewer seated in the hall, as its inside is considerably dimmer than the bright midsummer sunshine outside, and Marian does not know whether to be flattered or worried when he almost walks right into a pillar upon seeing her.

“Sir Guy…” She gets up to greet him before Brewer has a chance of a greeting, and while she mentally kicks herself for the clumsy breach of protocol, she is at least glad to be answered with a polite smile – guarded, but not insincere, before he bows to kiss her hand.

“Always an honour to see you, my lady.”

“Lady Marian shall be joining us for dinner, Sir Guy,” Brewer explains to his lieutenant, and as he rings the bell for the servant and tells him to give orders to the kitchen maids to set the table in the dining hall, Marian notices the curious sideways glance Guy gives her.

“And while we are waiting, Lady Marian,” Brewer resumes, turning back to her, “perhaps you might tell me how I may be of service to you.”

So he has figured out that she is not here merely to trade pleasantries – or to catch sight of Guy, though the latter is not altogether untrue. The trouble is, short of discussing affairs in the Holy Land, this is the least suitable subject to bring up in Guy’s presence. But asking for a postponement will only make it suspicious to both men.

“As a matter of fact, I have been pondering if I might dare ask Your Lordship for some assistance…” Seeing how Brewer assumes an air of polite interest, she goes on. “My manor – my father’s manor was destroyed early last year…” Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Guy’s face freeze, and she has to force herself to go on. “At present I am…”

Guy cuts in before she can finish. “My lord, it was my – ”

His expression as he says it, somewhere between consternation and anguish, leaves her in no doubt of what he is about to say next; and she jumps in before he can utter it.

“As Lord Gisborne was about to say, it was his superior, Sheriff Vasey’s fault that this deplorable accident happened in the first place.” If Brewer seems puzzled at her interruption, it is nothing compared to Guy, who looks downright stunned. “But I am not here to bring up past offences. What I dare humbly ask you is whether I might request a loan of funds from your office, which I will repay with interest later in the year.” Seeing how Brewer does not register opposition to the idea, she goes on. “I am receiving rents from the Knighton estate that I inherited from my father, and these would suffice to cover the cost of rebuilding the manor, the only issue being that the highest amounts shall coincide with the harvest, and if I wait until then to start the construction, it will be too late in the year to complete it before winter. If I were to ask you for a loan of five hundred marks –” She is encouraged when he does not balk at the sum, “I could then repay it with interest by Christmas. If you would kindly take a look at the plan I drew up for the repayment –” She reaches into the pocket of her cloak and pulls out the document she and Archer drafted the day before. “Your Lordship will see that it is a tenable proposition.”

For a few instants, Brewer says nothing, and she begins wondering if she misread his earlier silence for acquiescence when it only meant attention. But what he says next sends a ripple of relief over her.

“It is a reasonable idea, Lady Marian,” Brewer ventures. “Of course I shall need to take a look at the particulars of what you propose, but I can see no reason outright why this could not be done. I suggest we discuss this in more detail after dinner,” he concludes, seeing how the servant has poked his head in to say that the table is ready. “Shall we?”

Brewer turns to lead the way to the dining hall, but before Guy can follow, Marian grabs the sleeve of his jerkin, keeping him in place.

“What were you thinking?!” she begins in an agitated whisper as soon as Brewer is out of immediate earshot. Seeing her companion’s confusion, she goes on. “I know you were about to say the Knighton fire was your fault. Why are you so intent on punishing yourself? If Brewer finds out you had anything to do with it, he’ll make you pay for the rebuilding.”

“As I should, by all accounts, because it _was_ my fault.” Guy is not looking any less confused, but at least he has the good sense to keep his voice quiet.

“But now you have no rents to pay from.”

He shakes his head, lustrous raven tresses swaying around his face. “I’ll think of something. Surely you shouldn’t worry – ”

“Well, I’d rather take a loan from Richard’s war taxes than have you starve,” she cuts in.

“I’m not starving.” His expression is bordering on amusement.

“But you would if –” She breaks off with an impatient huff. “Anyway, I am not here to accuse you of anything, I just thought I might try my luck with this loan idea, and I thought it was about time I made Brewer’s acquaintance, and…” She pauses, suddenly self-conscious, and gives him a half-smile. “And I wanted to see you.”

For an instant, he smiles back at her – not his usual tight-lipped grin, not the polite, reserved smile he gave her earlier, but one that is open and happy and radiant; but it fades all too quickly.

“I wish it were true.”

He says it as a simple statement of fact; his voice is devoid of any shade of rancour, he merely voices what he believes they both know.

And the worst part is, she is not pretending this time.

Her face falling, she tightens her grip on his arm before she speaks.

“It _is_ true, Guy.” She makes a point of looking him in the eye, and is hurt by the uncertainty she sees there. “I’m done lying to you.”

As she holds his gaze, she thinks she can see the faint glimmer of hopeful wonder light up his features.

“Ah, there you are.” Brewer gives them both a mildly puzzled look from the doorway, though she suspects that while unclear on the details, he may have figured out the gist. “I thought you’d got lost. The Lady Beatrice is waiting for us.”

“Apologies, my lord, for keeping you and Her Ladyship waiting,” Marian hastily replies, though at this moment, she could not care less about dinner, Sheriff Brewer, or Lady Beatrice.

.

TBC

.


	6. Locksley Manor, St Benedict’s Day, July 11th

“Does yours say same thing as mine?”

She glances down at the scroll in her hand, then over at Archer. A short while ago, Sheriff Brewer’s messenger arrived in Locksley and handed them two scrolls addressed respectively to the Lord Locksley and to the Lady Knighton, Dowager Countess of Huntingdon, and as Marian and her brother-in-law unravelled the missives, neither one was certain as to what to expect. After all, Brewer had already agreed to lend Marian the money – and she had already used part of it to buy timber, a task where Archer’s wiles proved invaluable as a bargaining tool. What would Brewer want with both of them now, she wondered… except that once she had read the short letter, it became clear that Brewer himself was merely the messenger here, sending on summons issued by a higher authority.

She reads the text out loud so they can compare it, though it is likely that the letters are, in fact, identical.

_This is to request your Attendance at the exalted Gathering of the Council of Nobles that shall take place in the City of York upon the solemn Day of the Assumption of the Holy Virgin. It shall furthermore be known that such Gathering shall be concluded with a grand Feast and upon the following Day there shall be held a Tournament of Knights and an Archery Contest and generous Rewards shall be conferred upon the worthy Winners thereof. _

_By the Grace of God the Archbishop of Canterbury and by the Will of His Highness King Richard of England, Duke of Aquitaine, _

_Chief Justiciar of England _

_Hubert Walter_

“Is this what yours says?” she prompts.

Archer nods. “Yep. Exactly.” He glances up at her from the scroll. “So what do we do?”

She is puzzled for an instant. “What do you mean? We go there in a month’s time, right?”

“I don’t know… do you have a particular reason to go?”

“Do you have a particular reason _not _to?” she retorts, then, seeing how Archer is in no hurry to answer, continues: “Besides, they are promising plenty of festivities there...” She is out of deep mourning by now, and country life, for all its beauty, can get monotonous.

“Well, Walter needs a way to lure the nobles into this meeting,” Archer mutters, uncharacteristically lacking in enthusiasm at the prospect of entertainment.

“…and generous rewards for the contestants,” she adds, appealing to his more selfish instincts.

“_Generous_ is a relative term,” Archer counters. “They may set it at five marks and call it generous.”

“The rewards at jousting tournaments tend to be quite substantial,” she argues. Not that she has attended any herself, considering they had been banned in England for nearly forty years until two years previously, but she has heard stories of Continental events where the victorious knights were handsomely recompensed for risking their lives to entertain the crowds. After all, apart from the guests of honour, the common folk were charged an admission fee, albeit small.

Archer seems unconvinced. “I’m not that good at jousting,” he is forced to admit. “It’s more…” He trails off. “Anyhow, if I go, it will be for the archery contest.”

“Which you’re sure to win,” Marian prompts; she has seen him practice his shots at tricky far-away targets with stunning precision that could rival Robin’s. “It’s more _what_?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“It’s a deal, then? We’re going?”

Archer heaves a deep sigh. “All right… if you go, I’ll go.”

“You’re an angel.” She grins at him, ignoring his answering scowl. “And Archer, be a darling. Next time you’re in Nottingham, go to Edith the seamstress and ask her to come see me here. I’ll need a new gown.”

***

“What do you think?”

This is her greeting to Archer, who has come knocking upon her chamber door to accompany her to the Council meeting. They are in York, and Assumption Day is upon them; and while Archer still acts uneasy and somewhat shifty, Marian is decidedly enjoying herself.

York went a long way toward improving her critical opinion of cities; it is much bigger than Nottingham, but also noticeably wealthier as a busy trade crossroads and, as a result, better-kept. The streets are wider, allowing in daylight despite the taller buildings; there are gutters for collecting slops that appear to be regularly flushed out, and unlike Nottingham with its general air of despondency, York is bustling and upbeat and full of purposeful-looking citizens. It could, of course, be that her recent memories of Nottingham are from the dark time of Vasey’s tenure, a curse York never experienced; if so, she can only hope that Brewer and whoever succeeds him remains reasonable. She is still a country girl at heart, but as cities go, this one is not bad.

For now, though, their affairs are confined to the castle, where the meeting and feast shall be held and where they are staying thanks to the hospitality of the local Sheriff, Sir Harold Bardulf and his wife, the Lady Gwyneth. Archer has vaguely alluded to having an acquaintance or two in the Sheriff’s household, which must explain the courtesy afforded them in that each of them has been given a private chamber for the duration of their stay, a real luxury given the circumstances. They found out upon arrival that the Council invitees include nobles from six northern shires, not only Yorkshire and Nottinghamshire, but also Derbyshire, Lincolnshire, Leicestershire and Lancashire, so there are at least a hundred lords and a handful of ladies expected to attend the meeting per se, and the total number of guests at the gathering, including the noblemen’s wives, is close to twenty dozen; thus it is unsurprising that most unmarried or widowed nobles share a room with other men or women, and some even have to share a bed.

“Well?” she prompts, when Archer does not answer her question.

“Well, what?” He is eyeing her up and down with what she thinks is an appreciative glance, but she would prefer to have a more verbally explicit reaction to her look and attire.

In the hectic five weeks between the summons and the meeting – weeks filled with long days spent instructing and supervising the workmen building her manor, whose walls stand ready now and whose roof is being put up before the floors, windows and internal carpentry work can be completed – Marian barely had a day’s rest. The only thing she had time or money to do by way of preparing for the event was to commission an elegant gown to wear in York. To her own eyes, it looks up to the task, a sea-green velvet bliaut with delicate gold embroidery all over the fitted bodice and gold embroidered bands at the sleeve edges and hemline; but now that she has put it on, she is eager for a sign of approval.

“How do you think I look?” she prompts.

Archer gives her a sly grin.

“Will you marry me?”

“No!” she answers emphatically, before realising he is in jest. “Besides, you are only twenty-one.”

“Almost twenty-two,” he corrects.

“Still three years my junior. And I am recently widowed,” she continues, though her present appearance does little to advertise it, with the dark veil over her fancy headdress being the only sign of her status. _Besides, it is not you I am after, and you know it_. She knows she should not be pursuing this line of thought, but she is by now tired of chasing it away. Even though, she muses, she does not even know if the somewhat questionable object of her interest will be at this gathering; every time she tried to pry an answer from Archer as to his brother’s intentions concerning the council, she received a patently non-committal reply. If he has any common sense, she figures, he ought to stay away and keep to his duties rebuilding the castle rather than risk accidental exposure for his past association with a band of plotters against the King; but where Guy is concerned, common sense is never a given.

“Anyway,” she grins back at Archer, “so long as you approve of my gown, I am ready when you’re ready.”

***

_They should have held this assembly outside._

Not that the hot August sun would have provided much relief; but at least they would be breathing fresh air and there would be plenty of light, removing the need for more than a dozen standing chandeliers studded with tallow candles to illuminate the venue; as it is, they only illuminate the central dais and the first half dozen rows while the rest of the cavernous chamber is in gloom, and the heavy odour of melting wax permeates the air. And thanks to the excessive courtesy of her fellow attendees, most of them men - with the fewer than two dozen ladies in a small minority and most of those being fellow dowagers of about twice Marian’s age - who wanted a pretty young woman in their midst, she was courteously invited to sit in the front, and thus away from the windows at the far wall. Archer, whom she tried to coax into the seat next to her, chose to stay at the back, be it for the fresher air or for other reasons.

At least this gives her, literally, a front-row view of the proceedings.

Apart from secretaries at either end, the dais seats four occupants, three men and a lady. The Lady Gwyneth, presumably in her mid-forties, appears to have done her best to look, or at least to dress, like a woman half her age, what with the fancy hairdo untouched by a single filament of netting and barely covered by a sliver of a veil, with the revealing low-cut gown in a garish shade of raspberry red, and with her _outre_ coquettish manner. Seated next to her husband, she smiles sweetly at him whenever he glances at her, but the moment his eye is turned away, her gaze drifts over to the assorted lords seated before her. At one point she sees someone in the assembly who must be, at the least, a good acquaintance; for her smile broadens, her eyes light up and her hand rises from her lap in a furtive greeting; but Marian cannot see who it is without making it too obvious by craning her neck.

Then again, watching the three men sharing the dais with Gwyneth is no less entertaining; perhaps more so to the discerning eye, and it is not for nothing that Marian has not spent dozens of nobles’ gatherings seated next to her father, and then reluctantly dragged in by Vasey; she has become quite adept at deciphering the political games underlying these seemingly stodgy proceedings.

For one thing, these three could not have been more different.

The one in the middle is the youngest, and decidedly the most handsome, but it is immediately obvious, and not merely by virtue of the seating, that he is the one in control. Hubert Walter looks to be in his mid-thirties – about Guy’s age or slightly younger – and had his hair been a few shades darker, he and Guy could pass for brothers, or at least cousins; he has similar sharp features, and similar-coloured eyes, between blue and grey, keen and intelligent. Despite holding the exalted ecclesiastical office of Archbishop of Canterbury, besides the position of Chief Justiciar of England that gave him the authority to convene this meeting, he is dressed in less ostentatious fashion than an archbishop would typically wear, and his long purple cope is free from embellishments, its precious colour the only sign of its value. 

A close confidant of King Richard, and more of a statesman than a clergyman at heart, Walter became the effective governor of England upon the king’s return and especially following his departure for Normandy in May, and set restoring order in the turmoil-ridden kingdom as his main goal, starting with a stronger, less autocratic and more collegiate judiciary. Soon after his appointment, justices were ordered to secure the election of four coroners by each county court, whose job was to register royal pleas, which had previously been a duty of the sheriff. He also ruled that juries were to be chosen by a committee of four knights, also elected by the county court; taken together, these measures lessened the importance of sheriffs in royal administration, and Walter’s endorsement of elected rather than appointed offices reflected his preference for choices based on merit.

He had started his career in the service of King Henry, Richard’s father, when the king employed him variously as a negotiator, a justice, and a royal secretary. It was said that even then, as a twentysomething, he ruled England because his uncle, Ranulf de Glanvill, King Henry’s Chief Justiciar, frequently sought his nephew’s counsel. His close association with King Richard started when Walter travelled with Richard on the Crusade, along with his uncle Glanvill who died at the siege of Acre, where Walter’s distinguished services included acting as principal negotiator for the peace treaty with the Muslim leader Saladin on Richard’s behalf. Walter was highly regarded by his fellow crusaders, and after the conclusion of the treaty, he was in the first band of pilgrims that entered Jerusalem. Saladin entertained Walter during his stay there, and the Englishman succeeded in securing a promise from Saladin that a small group of clergymen would be allowed to remain in the city to perform divine services.

After Richard's departure from Palestine nearly two years ago, Walter led the English army back to England, but in Sicily he heard of the king's capture, and diverted to Germany, where he and William of Sainte-Mère-Eglise were among the first of Richard's subjects to find the king in his captivity, before returning to England in April to raise the king's ransom. In the meantime Richard wrote to his mother, Queen Eleanor, to support Walter’s nomination for the office of Archbishop of Canterbury. Walter was duly elected at the end of May and ceremonially enthroned at Canterbury in early November of the same year, and was made Chief Justiciar at Christmas; thus he came to control both England’s highest ecclesiastical and secular offices while Richard was away.

One of Walter's first acts as justiciar was in February, shortly before Richard’s return, when he presided over the feudal judgement of Prince John. In early February Richard was set free from Germany, but before the news had reached England, John, who was in France, sent over a clerk, Adam of St Edmund, who carried secret letters ordering all castles held by John's men to be defended against the king. Adam then happened to dine with Hubert Walter, and rashly disclosed his master’s plans. Hubert was alarmed, but kept his composure and allowed Adam to leave on his mission, but he was arrested by the Mayor of London, and all his papers were confiscated and given to Walter, who then showed them to the bishops, earls and barons of the Council the following day, and they agreed to dispossess John of all his lands and castles. When John showed no sign of submitting, he was excommunicated at Walter’s instigation. To defeat the rebellion, Walter himself then successfully laid siege to Marlborough Castle, and employed his brother Theobald in similar actions in Lancaster, rewarding him with the office of sheriff there. Eventually in May, John made peace with Richard, and was restored to favour, although, for the time being, not to his lands.

In these endeavours Walter was aided, at least intermittently, by the now-former Sheriff of Yorkshire and the flirtatious Gwyneth’s husband, Harold Bardulf, whom Walter had come to regard as a close ally, even a friend, despite the considerable age difference; short, stocky, and with a head of close-cropped white hair, Bardulf looks not a year younger than seventy. Like Walter, he used to serve the present King’s father, first as a steward to the royal household, then a royal justice and then a sheriff, and, together with Walter’s uncle, Ranulf de Glanvill, and with William Brewer, he was one of only five sheriffs to retain his post when Richard took the throne. He set out on the Crusade together with Walter and De Glanvill, but unlike Walter and his uncle, Bardulf turned back after they had reached Sicily; considering De Glanvill’s fate, it may have been a wise choice.

While Richard was in captivity, Bardulf, along with Brewer and two other statesmen, was a recipient of letters from the captive king, urging the election of Walter as Archbishop of Canterbury, and supported it; and Walter returned the favour by appointing Bardulf, along with his fellow Crusader Sainte-Mère-Eglise, as the two guardians to collect the King’s ransom.

More recently, however, Bardulf found himself in a precarious position. Despite being a vassal of John, Bardulf had helped oppose the Prince’s rebellion early in the year, but his conflicted loyalties between the two royal brothers nonetheless briefly led to him being accused of treason and having to resign his post as Sheriff of Yorkshire shortly before the Nottingham siege, and when he was acquittted at the Council following the siege, he was appointed to other Sheriff offices instead.

In a twist of fate, or rather of rampant ambition, the York office went to, or, more precisely, was bought by the remaining occupant of the dais, one Geoffrey. Had Marian been compelled to guess his identity, she might have been forgiven for mistaking him for King Richard. As it is, the striking resemblance to Richard has an easy explanation: Geoffrey, in his early forties and thus about five years’ Richard’s senior, is the illegitimate half-brother of both Richard and John. The resemblance is increased, no doubt intentionally, by Geoffrey’s splendid attire: Walter’s ecclesiastical counterpart as the Archbishop of York, Geoffrey has put on all the finery attendant to his position. Rumour has it that Geoffrey went into debt to the crown for the sum of three thousand marks to buy the office of the Sheriff of York; unable to match Walter’s secular importance in the country, he has aimed at least to approximate it by ruling over England’s largest shire.

Born to an unknown mistress before his father married Eleanor of Aquitaine, Geoffrey spent much of his time in disputes with his royal half-brothers. Some of this acrimony may have originated from his staunch support of their late father in the war waged against him by Richard and John together with the treacherous Philippe Auguste – he helped nurse his father during his final days and was the only one of Henry's sons present at his death – but he quarrelled just as easily and as extensively with his various colleagues and subordinates in the clergy.

And of all these innumerable quarrels, his most bitter and longstanding feud was with Hubert Walter over ecclesiastical supremacy – and ironically, it was King Richard who sowed its seeds. After succeeding to the throne, Richard nominated his half-brother Archbishop of York, so as to force him to become a priest and thus eliminate a potential rival, ignoring the fact that the cathedral chapter had earlier elected Walter, then Dean of York, as archbishop. It was said that Geoffrey himself had used his dead father’s seal to make this appointment, and Richard did not contest it as it suited his purposes so well. It was also rumoured that Queen Eleanor, who hated Geoffrey as the product of one of her husband's affairs, supported Walter's election to York over Geoffrey; the York archbishopric had been vacant for nearly ten years under Richard’s father, and it had been Walter's job as Dean to administer the office for the three years preceding Richard’s reign. Walter had made an unsuccessful bid to become Archbishop of York at the time he was made Dean, but had accepted defeat. The cathedral chapter at York disputed Geoffrey's appointment, claiming that because Walter and several other clergymen had not been present, the election was invalid.

Ultimately, the King prevailed, but the feud between Walter and Geoffrey only worsened. It came to a point where during the first day of the siege of Nottingham, Walter, by then Archbishop of Canterbury, arrived at Nottingham with his archiepiscopal cross carried before him, as a symbol of his claim to ecclesiastical primacy over all of England. Geoffrey was already at Nottingham and took exception to Walter having his cross carried before him outside his own province; he complained to the king, and on hearing of Geoffrey's complaint, Hubert, seeing an opportunity to make mischief, sought out Geoffrey and delivered a lofty rebuke in person. The immediate outcome of this incident was unclear, but it was known that the king resented Geoffrey for bringing up this issue in the middle of a battle, and Geoffrey was already under a cloud due to numerous complaints against him, which were to be given an airing in the Council following the siege.

In the end, Geoffrey thought that discretion was the better part of valour and stayed quiet at first, but retaliated later by having his own cross carried before him in Canterbury, Walter’s seat, the following month. King Richard did not reprimand Geoffrey for this act of provocation, but when, before leaving England in May, Richard confirmed Walter’s appointment as Chief Justiciar, Walter began an investigation into Geoffrey's actions, which lasted into the summer and led to the confiscation of Geoffrey's estates. Geoffrey again appealed to the king, who was by then in France; this time, apparently taking pity upon his half-brother, Richard overruled Walter, restored Geoffrey's estates, and pardoned him; though this magnanimous gesture may have had more to do with Geoffrey’s payment of a thousand marks and the promise of a thousand more to follow. Still, Geoffrey’s feud with Walter continued, and as a sign of this rivalry, he was the first archbishop of York to style himself "Primate of England", in opposition to Walter’s Archbishop of Canterbury title of "Primate of all England", although by then Canterbury’s primacy was an accepted fact.

This Council, Marian figures, must be Walter’s retaliation for Geoffrey’s recent tactical gain. Convened for the notional purpose of belatedly thanking Harold Bardulf for his service – a gesture by now overdue but still a gracious way of smoothing over the unfortunate incident of the unfounded treason accusation, with the added benefit of subtle humiliation for Geoffrey by purposely omitting his appointment as a cause for celebration – the meeting surely has as its real purpose a show of unity against the new Sheriff, a chance for Walter to rally his allies from the northern shires on Geoffrey’s turf to firmly put the over-ambitious and spiteful rival in his place. Thus the assembled nobles, both secular and clergy, must have been selected by Walter based on their likely allegiance; and he will undoubtedly do his best to use this gathering as an opportunity to find out where the less certain allies’ true loyalties lie. He must have heard of Marian as the widow of Richard’s faithful servant the Earl of Huntingdon, and the tale of Robin’s half-brother, the present Lord Locksley, may have reached him too; or perhaps, after instructing his scribes to pen the identical invitations, he sent a couple dozen un-addressed ones to the sheriffs he trusted, like his brother in Lancashire and Brewer in Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire, leaving them to address and send these to chosen invitees.

The Council goes on for the better part of the afternoon, and as the air in the stuffy chamber becomes heavier, Marian’s attention starts drifting. She is not surprised when towards the end, just after Hubert Walter has thanked the noble assembly for their attendance and expressed his wish to see them all at the feast later in the evening and his intention to see some of them in private audiences the following day, the Lady Gwyneth, leaning over to kiss his archbishop’s ring, ends up feeling faint and has to be escorted from the assembly.

.

TBC

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, this was _a lot_ of exposition, but it sets the stage for three rather more entertaining chapters to follow.
> 
> I figured I’d group the factual history comments together under one chapter, and while a couple of these characters have cropped up earlier, this is as good a point as any.
> 
> My fictional York Council meeting is based on two real ones, the one held by Richard in Nottingham between March 31st and April 2nd 1194 (right after the siege) and the ecclesiastical Council meeting held by Hubert Walter in York in 1195.
> 
> William De Ferrers and William Brewer, respectively, were the real Sheriffs of Nottingham in 1194, and the dates of their respective tenures in this fic are true to history, as are the details about De Ferrers’ role in the siege and Brewer’s political career and family life – such as I gather from Wikipedia, anyway. 
> 
> De Ferrers went on to become a favourite of King John, and restored to himself the family title of the (4th) Earl of Derby, but did not serve as sheriff again, though he held other political posts. 
> 
> The RL Brewer was perhaps more disagreeable than I portray here – or at least became so, for while he held several Sheriff postings under John (some of them, it seems, simultaneously), it came to a point where the men of Cornwall, Somerset, and Dorset apparently paid money to the King to have him removed from Sheriff’s offices there. Or maybe he started out OK and got nastier as he progressed 😉 But when he died he was buried beside his dear Beatrice, which I find touching. 
> 
> BTW the RL Vasey prototype, at least in chronological terms (Sheriff in 1191-1194), was named William de Wendenal (William was sure a popular name a century after the Norman Conquest!), but nothing is known of his personality, or whether he had a tall, dark and handsome henchman :P 
> 
> The last two thirds of this chapter are, as you may have seen, a thinly disguised data dump, some of it lifted almost verbatim from Wikipedia and from The Siege of Nottingham (see below). It won’t have much impact on the rest of the plot, but I thought it might be of interest to include a snapshot of 12th-century political intrigue. Thus virtually everything in there comes from history, or at least from its online version. 
> 
> I confess I love Hubert Walter. Seriously. Those of you who happened to have read Ransom will recall that the third chapter there is basically one big love letter to him. I started that fic looking for a convenient RL figure of authority to pivot the central plot twist on, but once I had stumbled upon Walter and done my reading, I was in awe of him, the man who effectively ruled England in lieu of first Richard and then John with a great deal of wise statesmanship – all that while he was in his thirties and early forties! (plus he is really said to have been tall and handsome 😉 Kinda off-topic, but my imaginary visual reference for him ever since _Ransom_ has been Sean Bean back in his mid-thirties, when he was utterly gorgeous)
> 
> Geoffrey, King Henry II’s illegitimate son (not to be confused with his legitimate son Geoffrey, father of Arthur of Brittany, who was fatally wounded in a tournament in 1186), was by all accounts a quarrelsome personality and an inferior statesman compared to Walter but seemed to think himself a bigger man, and Walter did not hesitate to put him in his place (seeing how Walter <strike>made Prince John his bitch </strike> waged warfare on Prince John like a boss, what was a fellow archbishop to him, be it a royal bastard?) 
> 
> By contrast, what can be found online about Walter’s relations with Bardulf, Geoffrey’s predecessor as Sheriff of Yorkshire, points to them being on good terms to the point that Bardulf made friendly quips to Walter at the latter’s expense. The show had the rather colourful couple of Sir Harold and his lustful wife Gwyneth as the York Sheriff and his wife. The RL Hugh Bardulf seems to have been a wiser and less spiteful character; and all that is known of his marriage is that he married a lady named Mabel in 1200, who outlived him. But seeing how the York Sheriff plot thread meshed well with my narrative, I decided that the show’s Harold was, in fact, Bardulf, and the show’s Gwynnie was his first wife before Mabel, and his RL Christian name of Hugh was a minor detail that could be overlooked.
> 
> Finally, for anyone interested in a very detailed and engaging account of the real siege of Nottingham that ends the show’s S3 and sets off my plot (as well as the political events that led to it), you can find it here: http://web.archive.org/web/20100721021614/http://www.deremilitari.org/resources/articles/foulds.htm (By the way, the Earl of Huntingdon was a real hero of the siege alongside Richard and De Ferrers, but his real name was David, and he was a Scotsman)


	7. York Castle, Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin, August 15th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for a rollercoaster, my darlings? Because, ready or not, here it comes :P

“Aren’t you coming to the feast?”

Archer was waiting for her outside the assembly, but now, instead of accompanying her to the great hall, he pauses when they reach the gallery leading to the guest chambers, and his face as he answers her query is suspiciously innocuous.

“Would love to, but I have some matters to attend to. Do forgive me.”

“What, you’re going to leave me on my own?” He sure knows by now that Marian is no damsel in distress, but she is damned if she is letting Archer off the hook this easily.

Of course she would find an acquaintance or two among the invitees to while away the time; she definitely saw Brewer seated across from her at the front of the chamber, and had caught a glimpse of a couple of fellow Nottinghamshire landowners as they filed out of the festive Mass before the Council. But it looks like Guy has stayed away from the gathering after all, and failing _that_, she’d rather be spending the feast with someone she will not have to constantly watch her tongue with, so as to have a chance of enjoying herself, instead of getting involved in hazardous political disputes, or saddled with an unwelcome would-be suitor. At least she has her widow’s veil as a ready deterrent against the latter.

“I… might be able to join you later, when my business is concluded.”

“And what sort of business would that be?”

“Well… I told you I have… a couple of acquaintances here.” His mask of pretend innocence is slipping; in fact, he looks so comically uneasy that she is beginning to enjoy this.

“Let me guess… _long story_?”

Archer shrugs and gives her an apologetic-looking smirk. “Actually, it’s a pretty short story…” He is careful to keep his voice low, and is motioning her to an alcove off the side of the gallery as he says it. “When I was here half a year ago… in captivity…”

Her eyebrows ride up; she knows Archer has been to York before, but it did not occur to her that it involved a sojourn in a dungeon. At least his reluctance to attend the Council makes a lot more sense now.

“…There was this lady who… took pity on me… and we spent a few pleasurable occasions brightening up each other’s lives,” he finishes in an incongruously sombre tone.

Marian cannot suppress a snort at this flowery description. “And the dungeon guards were happy to allow it?”

“She was able to make suitable arrangements,” Archer replies evasively, making Marian wonder how well-connected Archer’s lady friend might have been.

“And now that you’re back here and free, you’d like to renew your acquaintance?”

The uneasy look is back. “It’s… more a matter of _her_ wanting to renew it… for old times’ sake, you know.”

“And does this lady happen to be married?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“And how do you know that her husband won’t turn up at an inconvenient moment?”

“Well, for one thing, he will be at the feast.”

“And he won’t insist on her coming along?”

“She is supposedly feeling unwell, so he won’t.”

This is beginning to sound suspicious, considering recent happenings at the Council. “Then what’s stopping him from staying home with her? Or coming back early to check on her?” she presses.

Archer must have figured it was an uphill battle anyway, because he decides to give up his secret. “Seeing how he’s one of the hosts, he’ll be kind of stuck at the feast until the end.”

Marian shakes her head in resignation. With two of the three presiding officials being archbishops, it does not take any guesswork to figure out who the couple in question are. “You’re willing to stake your life on this?” _Or at least your freedom. _For the time being she decides to ignore the glaring matter of Archer’s questionable taste in women.

But Archer is unfazed. “I won’t have to. After what happened last time, Her Ladyship has wisely suggested that we meet in my chamber.”

_Of course_; the reason why Archer got a private chamber is obvious now, and Marian must have received the same preferential treatment to dispel suspicion. “And what exactly happened last time?” she asks, mock-casually.

“We were… apprehended in the Sheriff’s quarters.” He looks positively sheepish saying it.

“Please don’t tell me you were apprehended _by the Sheriff_,” she moans, though she is quite certain of the answer.

“Well…”

Just as she thought. “And you think it’s a really good idea to do a repeat performance.”

Judging by Archer’s expression, she might as well have delivered a great affront. “I told you, she’s coming to my chamber this time, so there’s no chance…”

She huffs. “Yeah, right. No chance. No chance at all.”

“She knows the castle inside out. And if anyone sees her, as the chatelaine she can have a dozen excuses for being in the guest quarters.” That much, at least, is true, and the fact that Bardulf has kept the castle despite no longer being Sheriff works in Archer’s favour here.

She gives her brother-in-law a patently bright grin. “Well, I’m off to the feast. I hope you enjoy your…” She pauses, seeing a maid hurrying along the gallery. “…shooting practice.”

They both try to suppress a snort at this, without much success.

***

The sun is setting by the time Marian steps into the spacious antechamber next to the positively enormous dining hall where long tables have been set for the feast. By now the heat has subsided, and a fresh breeze from the open windows stirs the candle flames, so the air is nowhere near as heavy as it was at the Council. The flickering candlelight mingles with the waning light from outside, casting a gentle, bewitching glow upon the assembled guests, playing up the glittering accents on their rich robes and elaborate jewellery.

For a moment, seeing the exalted assembly seemingly devoid of familiar faces, Marian feels a twinge of insecurity, fearing she may end up spending the feast with no one to talk to, before she berates herself for the silly worry. There will be fellow guests sitting on either side of her at the table, so she will not be alone in any real sense, and if these neighbours are not to her liking, she can always follow Lady Gwyneth’s example and feign a headache as an excuse to retire to her chamber. And before any of this happens, she can take a dose of liquid courage to calm her nerves; seeing how at least a dozen stewards are scurrying around with pitchers of wine ready to fill the attendees’ goblets, all she has to do is find a goblet to fill, and wave her hand.

“Is there any way I may be of help to you, my lady?”

The voice is smooth and friendly, and she likes the speaker even before she turns to face him; and she is doubly pleased when her eyes confirm the good first impression. The stranger is well-dressed – definitely not a steward – young and agreeable, with expressive eyes and medium-length light brown hair; he strikes her as a reasonably good prospect for spending the evening with.

“As a matter of fact, my lord, I was looking for a way to get myself a goblet of malvasia, and would appreciate your kind assistance.”

“This very instant.” His answer is almost too quick, and the smile accompanying it is a touch too timid, but she is pleased nonetheless.

True to his word, her new acquaintance is back in a blink of an eye, handing her a filled goblet.

“I do apologise for not introducing myself sooner. Gerard Nevill, at your service, my lady.”

She recalls the Nevill name; a well-known and respected Yorkshire family; judging by his presumable age, he must be the son and heir.

“Lady Marian of Knighton,” she answers with a shallow bow. She stops short of bringing up her official and somewhat intimidating title of Dowager Countess of Huntingdon; her dark veil should make it sufficiently clear that she is, in some fashion, bereaved; but the fact that she recently lost a husband can wait depending on whether it becomes necessary to use it for a strategic retreat.

“Delighted to meet you, my lady.” And delighted he is, or at least looks to be; Marian does her best to match his broad smile as they raise their goblets to each other.

“Are you here for the assembly?”

She knows his question to be a polite, or at least roundabout, way of asking where she normally resides, but she still has to stop herself from rolling her eyes and replying with _and what do you think?_

“I am indeed.” Oh well, she might as well give him what he wants. “I was born in Derbyshire but have lived most of my life between Nottingham and my father’s manor in its vicinity. My father was Sheriff there for more than a decade.”

Nevill’s eyes widen. “Then your father and you must be guests of honour at this Council,” he ventures.

She sighs. “My father passed away more than a year ago.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it. Please accept my most-”

She gives him the time to finish the _sincere condolences_ line before continuing. “So I am here in my own right, but I travelled here with my brother-in-law.”

Her companion’s amiable features freeze in momentary confusion. “You have sisters then, my lady?”

It is her turn to be confused before she understands that he has no idea of her widowhood; by now he is sure to think that the veil is her tribute to her father.

“No, I’m afraid not. You see, my husband passed away not half a year ago, and my brother-in-law is his younger sibling.”

To give Nevill credit, he hides his surprise reasonably well.

“I’m sorry for your loss. This must have been a tragic year for you.”

He does get more credit for compassion. “It has been indeed, and thank you for your kind words. But I’m learning to deal with my circumstances. What about you, my lord? Are you from these parts?” Hopefully, he will go along with the change of subject, and will be happy to talk about himself.

“No, I’m not from York.” The way he says it, York could be more important than Jerusalem or Rome. “My family – my father’s family – owns the manor at Scoreby, near Gate Helmsley, about two dozen miles north of here.” In her mind, that would pretty much qualify as being _from here_, but in Nevill’s view, York and Gate Helmsley must be worlds apart. “I’ve been here quite a few times, but I mostly stay at the manor as I help my father run the estate, and I’ve never had a chance to visit Nottingham.”

He could be saying it as a way to solicit an invitation, but if what he says it true, then she can sympathise with his breadth of worldly experience. “I’m afraid there isn’t much to see there, especially since the siege. It’s still being rebuilt. Maybe in a year or two it will be worth a visit…”

Marian can see his mild disappointment at her answer, seeing how she is in no hurry to propose a repeat encounter in Nottingham; but even as Nevill nods and mutters the _I see_, she wonders where he _has_ been other than York and the family manor, and what he would make of it if she were to tell him she has travelled as far as the Holy Land. He’d probably be amazed and alarmed in equal measure... to say nothing of the fact that she got married in Acre in the presence of King Richard on what she thought was her deathbed, and is now rebuilding her family manor burned down by her would-be killer who shares a half-brother with her dead husband, and the two had ended up friends… and the half-brother is currently in bed with the former Sheriff’s wife. The poor boy would run away in horror if he found out any of this. She suddenly feels old.

Nevill, unaware of her convoluted train of thought, goes on undeterred.

“…But I must say, of all the times I’ve been to York, this is decidedly the grandest gathering I’ve seen. So many nobles…”

It’s quality rather than quantity that matters, she thinks wryly, though she has to agree with his assessment of its grandeur.

“…and such excellent entertainment. I’ve heard there will be a troupe of jesters and three minstrels performing tonight, and of course, there’s the joust tomorrow. Are you coming to the joust, Lady Marian?”

She was planning on it, but she is not sure she likes where this looks to be going.

“I… am thinking about it,” she offers.

Nevill’s eyes flash brighter. “Please tell me you shall be there… I’m going to take part in it, I’ve been practicing these past two years, ever since King Richard lifted his father’s ban on tournaments, and I’d consider it a great honour to be your champion, my lady…”

“Oh, I really couldn’t let you do that, I’m afraid, my lord.” Her regret is feigned, but she hopes he takes her decision as final. “As a widow, I really ought not nominate champions while I’m in mourning…” She trails off, glad to see that Nevill is not trying to argue. It would be a rather risqué gesture on her part, indeed, had she allowed it. Not to mention that she would hate to imagine what Guy would think if he found out… even though it should not concern her.

Nevill is everything she should be looking for in a potential suitor; about her age, from a respected local family, impeccably courteous and good-looking in a pleasant, non-threatening way; and he clearly likes her and is eager to impress her; but her heart is not in it. She feels self-conscious; on second thought, she’d rather spend time talking politics with grumpy old married men than drag out this bland conversation over the entire evening, and before long her eyes start sweeping over the antechamber looking for acquaintances who might give her a plausible pretext to extricate herself.

It takes her an instant to realise that the gorgeous creature her gaze is drawn to, cheerfully flirting with three pretty young ladies with an air of casual mischief, is none other than Guy of Gisborne. He looks so much in his natural element that she cannot reconcile this relaxed and radiant apparition with the awkward half-suitor, half-jailer, alternately too severe and too insecure, that she used to deal with; and she begins to suspect that his painful awkwardness of old had more to do with _her_ than with his habitual conduct vis-à-vis titled ladies… which might be a curious fact in its own right, but the longer she watches him, the less she likes it; another moment, it seems, another burst of giggly replies from his admiring _coterie_, and her patience will snap.

Gerry, as she has mentally christened her would-be suitor, is still blabbering away about his excellent destrier, his brand-new armour, and his prowess in the tiltyard as proven by his many decisive victories against both his cousins and even his uncle, to say nothing of his younger brother, but she is no longer able to pay attention, or even pretend to. The moment he pauses in his excited discourse, she offers him a rueful smile.

“My lord, I would so much like to hear more about it, and I do apologise, but I’m afraid I just saw someone I ought to speak to. I am most distressed that we cannot continue our pleasant talk.” She does her best to appear disappointed, and hopes it does not come across too false. “I shall cheer for you at the tournament,” she concludes, and even to her own ears, it sounds hurried.

As soon as Nevill has finished his part of the farewells, she sets off across the room towards the clandestine ladies’ man and his darlings _du jour; _but her pace falters as she recognises one of the three women, who had her back turned to Marian until then.

She remembers Philippa de Beaumont only too well. A couple of years older than Marian, Philippa, along with her influential father, was a guest of honour at one of her father’s gatherings in Nottingham a year or so before he retired; and Marian, then barely twenty and playing hostess, had her patience sorely tested and her spirits for the evening thoroughly ruined.

Philippa combined her good looks and worldly ease with a good deal of vanity and disdain for those who did not measure up to her exacting standards, and on that occasion she chose Marian as the designated tormentee, alternately dismissing what she said, subtly mocking her poor French, pestering her with innocent-sounding but inherently offensive queries, and dropping pointed barbs about her, as Philippa put it, _unusual_ dress sense, without giving any consideration to the fact that Marian, an orphan since her adolescence, had no female relatives to learn from.

Marian’s sense of duty as hostess had compelled her to hold her tongue then, but she loathed the prospect of running into Philippa again, and certainly could not vouch that any subsequent encounter would proceed on civil terms. Now Philippa, dressed in a gown so heavily embroidered that it rivals Archbishop Geoffrey’s vestments, obviously has her sights on Guy, smiling the brightest and laughing the loudest and fluttering her eyelashes the most, and Marian is unsure if she wants such a fraught reunion to take place in Guy’s presence, when the other woman will be outdoing herself in being witty – that is, insulting – at Marian’s expense. But retreating now would be embarrassing to herself. She notes, at least, that Guy seems to prefer the other two women; a slight comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

She traverses the final half a dozen steps toward the group on unsteady legs, but is thrilled when Guy’s full attention turns to her the moment he sees her, like a sliver of iron to a magnet. She is less thrilled to notice his expression immediately change from playful to apprehensive, but is relieved when he addresses her in English, clearly for her benefit, as Philippa is fluent in French and the other two appear no worse.

“Lady Marian… I had no idea you would be here.” _And that’s probably why you decided to show up_, she thinks, though she cannot help being flattered at the way he keeps staring at her. “My brother never mentioned it –”

She does not need to force the grin as she answers. “You know your brother, Guy, he can never keep his stories straight.” Belatedly, she catches herself having used a far too familiar address, but he does not seem to mind. Unlike, apparently, Lady Philippa, whose scowl may have lasted an instant but was downright feral.

“You have a brother, my lord?” The innocuous question from the younger-looking of the other two women may be redundant, but is perfectly timed to avert disaster.

“I do, but he is…” Guy looks around to see if Archer is anywhere in the antechamber.

“...otherwise engaged at the moment, my lord,” Marian supplies with a sly grin at Guy, who mirrors it with a wry smirk of his own turning into a chuckle.

“Of course... by the way, I am terribly amiss in forgetting my duties, Lady Marian. This is Lady Joan De Cleres,” he goes on, bowing his head toward the older of the pretty strangers. “Lady Rosamund Crispin,” he bows again to indicate the younger one. “And Lady –”

“Oh, _Marian_ and I have known each other for _ages_,” Philippa drawls, purposely using the same informal address to Marian as Marian herself did to Guy.

If Guy is surprised, he does not show it. “Ah, I see. Ladies, may I present to you the Dowager Countess of Huntingdon. I had the honour of knowing her husband, who was the hero of the siege of Nottingham, and I was fortunate to have fought alongside him in that siege.”

“And you very nearly _died_ there alongside him,” Marian mutters wryly. She chooses not to mention that a year ago, _the honour of knowing her husband_ would have sounded more like the _curse of dealing with the filthy pest of Sherwood_, or something of that sort.

Guy, who looks to have read her thoughts, casts his eyes down in apparent embarrassment; the way Joan and Rosamund stare at him wide-eyed, they are even more in awe of him than they already were. Philippa, meanwhile, has obviously drawn her conclusions regarding the two of them, but her murderous expression gives way almost immediately to a look of exaggerated sweetness.

“My condolences, Marian dear. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to cope with your grief when your husband is recently deceased. But you’re still the fresh-faced country girl, I see…” Philippa pointedly looks her up and down trying to find fault with her attire, but cannot think of anything nasty to say, making Marian doubly glad that she went to the trouble and expense of having the gown made. “So you’re here on your own? What in heaven’s name for? Surely these complex matters they are discussing must be tedious for you…” The questions tumble out of her mouth so purposely fast as not to give Marian time to reply, and the other two women exchange somewhat bewildered glances at this tirade. “Tell me, where are you living these days? Back in that old manor of your father’s? It must have been such a blow for you to have had to move out of the castle, not knowing if you’d ever live in one again!”

Philippa is obviously trying her best to drive Marian away; if Marian had a free hand in choosing her response, she would punch the arrogant witch right in her smug mouth, but the occasion rather forbids it. She could, of course, deliver a verbal rebuke, but she does not want an embarrassing confrontation in front of her present audience. She is about to reply that she likes her manor better than any castle and leave the four of them to enjoy each other’s company when Guy, who has been looking at Philippa with an inscrutable expression, first akin to curiosity but increasingly approaching impatience, jumps in as soon as Philippa is silent and before Marian can say anything.

“I trust there must have been a misunderstanding, Lady Philippa,” he starts softly, with a patently polite little smirk that Marian knows to be really dangerous. “Surely you can’t be speaking of this same Lady Marian. I’ve had the honour and privilege of knowing Her Ladyship these past two or three years. She has a better grasp of politics than many of the lords present here, not to mention her skill in managing an estate, her kindness in helping the poor, and her talent for healing the sick, of which I happen to have first-hand knowledge.”

Philippa, who initially thought that Guy was joining in to mock Marian together with her, realised too late that Guy was mocking _her_ together with Marian; and now opens her pouty mouth like a fish but is at a loss for a retort.

Marian seizes the opportunity to offer the other woman her own sweetest smile. “Well, it’s been lovely seeing you again, Lady Philippa, but I’m feeling rather peckish. Lady Joan, Lady Rosamund, it has been my pleasure, and I do hope we shall have another opportunity to talk soon. Shall we, my lord?”

She dearly hopes that Guy will play along, and he certainly does not disappoint. “Always at your service, my lady,” he replies with the familiar wolfish grin as he offers her his arm.

Marian walks off with him into the dining hall, her head held triumphantly high under Philippa’s glare, and well aware of envious glances from a handful of young women, feeling like an adventure-seeker who has secured a particularly precious trophy.

***

Most of the feast goes by in a giddy blur. She is too distracted with watching her companion out of the corner of her eye to listen closely to the numerous toasts, a condition that is not helped by her enthusiastically drinking the Chios wine as these continue; she is mildly surprised to see that Guy hardly drinks at all, but does not question it. Instead, as the feast starts to wrap up in anticipation of the entertainment to follow, she asks him what he thinks of the gathering, a question that does not seem nearly as bland and unimportant now compared to when she discussed it with Gerry Nevill a couple of hours earlier. She is, however, _very_ surprised by Guy’s answer.

“It’s better than I expected… almost as good as the ones in France. Brings back a few memories, as a matter of fact.” She marvels at his faraway look as he says it.

Well, this explains how he was so at ease when she saw him; but it is not at all what she expected based on her prior knowledge of him.

“You’ve been to France?”

“I lived there for seven years.”

“Oh.” She hopes she does not look too stupid, but he continues before she has time to get embarrassed.

“I was born here, not far from Nottingham in fact, but my parents were originally from France.” She wonders if it is a good time to say that she knows more about it than he might think thanks to Archer, but thinks better of it; the occasion is too, well, festive for such a serious discussion. “My sister and I lost our parents when I was sixteen and moved to France, and we didn’t come back to England until I was twenty-three.” He also looks as if he were trying to decide how much more to say about it, and apparently also decides in favour of keeping to lighter subjects, because his next remark is more impersonal. “The French feasts tended to be this big, with lots of guests and plenty of food and wine, and there were usually scores of performing troubadours. But,” he continues with a smirk, “they didn’t get much of an appreciative audience, as after the first one or two ballads, everyone was off to, well, more private pursuits.”

Marian cannot help a giggle at that. “Well, you know what the feasts here are typically like…” she begins.

“I really don’t,” Guy counters. “I’ve hardly been to any proper feasts in England.” This does tally with what she has seen of him, but now she sees it in a different light.

“Then I’m happy to enlighten you,” she replies with a grin. “They can probably give the French a run for their money in terms of quantity of food and especially drink, but the guests tend to be far less numerous, so that by the time the music starts the men are too drunk to listen, and the next day they are busy nursing a monstrous hangover, and the women are left to gossip among themselves.”

Guy’s answering grin is even broader and brighter than hers, but then his attention drifts off for an instant before he replies. Following his gaze, Marian sees Lady Philippa in her iridescent robe waving at him, only to be answered with a bow and a smile that is as charming as Marian knows it to be thoroughly fake. The woman just won’t take a hint, apparently.

“Well, that explains how our friend here has become so proficient in the art of gossip,” Guy mutters, looking at Philippa but addressing Marian, before fully turning to her to continue in an even softer voice. “I hope you didn’t let her petty comments upset you.”

“Not at all,” Marian answers truthfully. Considering the brilliant verbal slap he delivered to Philippa, it was downright entertaining in the end. “And by the way, thank you for your gallant intervention. I’m sorry I cut short your conversation –”

He shakes his head. “I was only giving you your due… besides, she’s not my type.”

Had Marian been entirely sober, she would have kept her mouth shut; but letting the wine do the talking, she replies with a half-teasing “And what’s your type?” before thinking that she probably shouldn’t have. Especially considering that Guy seems taken aback by the question.

It takes him a moment to answer, and he is looking away as he speaks. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Sorry,” she says, thoroughly mortified.

He starts to protest, but the scene is mercifully cut short by the arrival of the troupe of jesters; and before long, the two of them chuckle together at the antics of the garishly dressed men, then roll their eyes in unison at the overwrought wailings of the minstrels; and finally, Marian has a hard time trying not to laugh too loudly as the star performer, an Angevin troubadour, takes centre stage and Guy delivers a running translation for her benefit, or rather, a deliciously wry interpretation of the ballad’s florid verse. To say that Marian did not expect to enjoy herself so much in his company is an understatement, especially considering how withdrawn he has been recently. Then again, the way things stood before was no better; whatever functions they happened to attend in Nottingham saw them in opposing political camps, where Guy would be working to advance Vasey’s agenda and she would be covering up for Robin’s sabotage. Coming to think of it, this is the first time they have a chance to get to know each other without all the plots and politics.

***

“And may I ask what your plans for tomorrow are, my lord?”

They are walking leisurely along the open gallery toward the guest quarters; the entertainers in the great hall are winding down, and Marian has asked Guy to escort her to her chamber. She is rather curious about tomorrow’s joust and would like to get up relatively early to secure a good seat in the lists… and she is already thinking of her next remark, namely, the most casual way to ask Guy to accompany her to the tournament, when his reply catches her unawares.

“I’m afraid I might be busy.”

He says it in an oddly flat voice, looking away from her again. Since when has _he_ started being evasive; is he taking cues from Archer?

“Oh… and who’s the lucky lady?” She is mostly, but not entirely in jest, but is alarmed when Guy’s face falls as he answers.

“I assure you it is pure business.”

Whatever _business_ means, she does not like it.

“Pray tell”, she insists, pursing her lips.

“It is late, and not a good time to talk of it.” This time there is an unmistakable edge creeping into his voice, but she is not that easily deterred; not when they have been through much more fraught confrontations, and not when she is beginning to sense trouble.

“It _is_ a good time, Guy, please tell me,” she entreats. Her giddiness from the feast has instantly dissipated, giving way to a gnawing sense of foreboding.

“I’d rather not burden you with these matters.” He does not sound annoyed now, just tired, and somehow, that is even worse.

Marian battles a sinking feeling as she takes a step to face him, blocking his way and taking pains to look him in the eye, even as he is taking pains to avoid her gaze.

“Listen, like it or not, you already _have_ burdened me. I won’t sleep at night if you don’t tell me.” Whatever he may think, it is true.

Guy turns away from her, and she is beginning to fear he will walk away, when he answers.

“I intend to speak with the Chief Justiciar tomorrow.” The same flat voice as earlier; she remembers too many times when she heard it before. When he said – lied – that he felt nothing for her; when he struggled in vain to push her away upon discovering she was the Nightwatchman; when he defended his loyalty to Vasey. She would give anything not to hear it again.

“About what?” she presses.

He sighs and turns toward her again; whatever it is, he has made up his mind to tell her – or rather, given up on getting away with _not _telling her.

“My part in Vasey’s plots against King Richard.”

She suddenly feels very weak at the knees, so much so that she has to lean against the gallery wall. If Guy has noticed, he does not try to help her.

“Wha… Why?!” she asks when she has regained the ability to speak.

“It’s bound to come to light. I don’t want to keep waiting for it to happen.” The way he says it, it sounds like he has been over this reasoning dozens of times in his mind. “I was one of the Black Knights. All the other plotters are out in the open or dead by now, and considering my association with Vasey, my role is an open secret. I’d rather admit it myself than have someone do it for me. Please, Marian, don’t dwell on it,” he concludes, a plea obviously falling on deaf ears.

To an outside observer, had there been any, they might look like a pair of lovers cooing in the shadows; the reality could not have been more different. Just as Marian was happily thinking they were finally at ease with each other, it turns out he saw it as a respite before getting himself killed.

“Are you that eager to die?” she exclaims.

“It’s a matter of time anyway,” he answers in an infuriating patient tone, as if explaining a self-evident truth to an obstinate child, before continuing in a more pensive vein. “I’m not afraid to die, but I happen to be particular about the manner of my death, and this way I can have a say in it. If I can help it, I’d rather not have to go through the indignity of a hanging, and I’d rather not live my last moments watching my entrails being pulled out if I get sentenced to be drawn and quartered, as would befall a traitor. But if I confess and surrender to their mercy, they might agree to put me to the sword, or at least the axe, as would befit a condemned man of noble birth.”

As matter-of-fact as if he were comparing items of clothing; by now she is so distraught that she wants to slap him. _Repeatedly, _until he sees reason.

“And this is why you came here? To ask for an execution?!” She can barely restrain herself from shouting.

“Well, then there’s the joust.” He obviously does not intend to be a spectator.

Just as she thought it could not get much worse.

“The joust.” She looks at him as if he has just announced his intention to jump over the moon, and this provokes him into laughing.

“I’m not as bad as you may think.”

Marian is at once annoyed and amazed at his transformed expression. He never laughed in all the time she remembered him working for Vasey, not once, at least not in her presence. He looks younger, and utterly irresistible. She is about to say _yes, I know_, before she realises he is talking about mounted combat skills.

“You may have been great, but you nearly died earlier this year.”

“_That_ was half a year ago,” he counters.

“Four and a half months. You almost didn’t make it,” she repeats. “And I’d much rather you escorted me to the joust…” To hell with subtlety; at this point she is not beneath begging if it can help. If he agrees, he will have to refrain from fighting, and with any luck, he may miss his chance of an audience.

But he just sighs for a response.

“I can’t promise, but I’ll see what I can do,” he says eventually, and her heart sinks. Guy of Gisborne may be better than she thinks at jousts and other things besides, but he has never been a good liar.

They are no more than twenty feet away from the door to her chamber by now, and Marian feels rather as if she were approaching a scaffold. Like a condemned criminal, she is frantically searching for an argument that might sway Guy’s resolve; and in a flash of inspiration, she finds it.

“Listen, let me tell you why it makes no sense.” She steps very close to him, mere inches away, and talks in a quick, low whisper, a necessary precaution considering the subject matter. “If you don’t tell Walter about your role as an assassin, it’s most likely to remain unknown forever. Richard and Walter know that you were part of Vasey’s entourage, but Richard forgave you for that on Archer’s word back in April, and they don’t know you were the designated killer. I know Richard saw you in Acre, but he didn’t know who you were. If you never come face to face with him again –” she goes on, but he cuts her short.

“Marian, if I don’t confess it I’ll never respect myself.” He is speaking very softly, and looks dead serious.

“And if you do,” she retorts weakly, “I’ll be very…” _Hurt. Miserable. Heartbroken_. “…offended.” But he just shakes his head.

“We are long past that point, I’m afraid.” She is about to ask what he means when he explains. “Whatever crime I committed, or planned to commit against Richard, is nothing compared to my crime against _you_. The fact that Richard was the only immediate witness to that crime doesn’t make it any less of a crime, nor does the fact that you survived it, thank God.” He pauses, and she curses herself for being too distraught to think of a counterpoint. “Seeing you in good spirits and fully recovered makes me happy beyond measure, beyond what I deserve. I can ask for no more than this, but I ought to pay for what I did. Tonight has been a precious reprieve, but come tomorrow, I’ll still be the man who nearly murdered you. Nothing will change that, nothing I can do will suffice to atone for that, and I know I can never have your forgiveness.”

So _that’s_ what this is all about… well, if it is up to her, then there is hope yet.

“Guy, I do forgive you.” She grabs both his hands; in truth, she forgave him months ago. “If… if that’s what you’re seeking, if knowing it can make you reconsider giving up, then you must know it, and I’m asking you not to –” She wonders if a kiss might strengthen her argument, but suspects that he will not believe she meant it and will see it as nothing but a bargaining tactic.

His eyes are shining in the dim light; he gently kisses her hand and does not immediately release it, and she hopes that the blush creeping up her cheeks at his touch is not too obvious in the poorly-lit gallery.

“I have nothing to fear,” he insists. “It can’t be worse than the life I had before you came back. No hell can be worse than having to live with the realisation of what I’d done and become. In a way, I died the day I stabbed you in Acre; and even if you forgive me, I know I’m dead to you.”

She has to fight down an impulse to throw her arms around him; instead she wraps both her hands around his long fingers. His hand is cold, but she feels heat spreading through her like liquid fire.

“On the contrary, Guy, you feel very much alive to me… can you please, _please_ stay this way?” She tries to force a smile that comes out crooked and pathetic.

Instead of a reply, he kisses her hand again and bows to her… and all too soon he is gone; and even though she knows it is no use arguing or pleading with him at this juncture, it takes all her willpower not to run after him.

.

TBC

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …so, will Guy succeed in getting himself killed, one way or another, before this fic is over? <strike>A clue: No! </strike> But there are a couple of minor points I should explain here before we get to the next instalment.
> 
> First, in a glaring departure from the _romantic evening in a historical setting_ trope, I did not get these two to dance before Guy started waxing lyrical about the medieval version of _suicide by cop_ …but there was a reason for it. In fact I did think they would dance until I looked into medieval dancing, and was disappointed to discover that until the late Middle Ages, it apparently consisted of groups going around in circles, holding hands and chanting lyrics in unison… not exactly romantic IMO; so I thought I might as well skip it and let them have fun watching and listening to entertainers instead.
> 
> Second, I will have more to say on the subject of tournaments a couple of chapters later, but for now I wanted to say that the ban imposed by Henry II in 1155 and lifted by Richard in 1192 was a real thing. Interestingly, it only applied to England, where Henry was afraid of large numbers of armed knights inciting civil disorder; but the was happy to allow huge tournament events and even "seasons" in his French possessions.


	8. York Castle, Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin (2nd day), August 16th

Dawn sees Marian knocking impatiently on the door of Archer’s chamber, ill-rested, bleary-eyed, and shivering from too little sleep. Every time she started dozing off, her mind’s eye presented her with images of Guy’s final moments on the scaffold, or on the gallows; and she would sit up, panicked and breathless, forcing herself to chase the vision away before lying down again, at which point the vicious circle would repeat itself.

She had resolved even before she made it to her bed that she would seek to speak to Hubert Walter in the morning; but fearing that her words would weigh little against whatever damning evidence Guy might choose to bring up against himself, she also decided to recruit her two potential allies at this Council, her brother-in-law and Sheriff Brewer, to the cause. She will have to wait until a more civil hour to talk to Brewer, but with Archer, she can dispense with civilities in view of the pressing matter.

He opens the door dishevelled and somewhat disoriented, but contrary to her fear, does not seem angry to see her. In fact he looks relieved, which she finds rather incongruous until she realises he was probably expecting Bardulf and a couple of guards.

“Marian?.. Do come in. Sorry for the mess,” he mutters gesturing to the bed, which looks as if a battle had been fought in it. “We kind of… got carried away yesterday.”

Marian makes a face; she does not want to know, let alone picture, what went on between him and Gwyneth. But Archer does not notice; he seems to be in a good mood despite the early hour.

“You and my brother are the new talk of the town. I dropped in toward the end of the feast when the two of you were already gone, and everyone was saying…” He stops to wink at her. “So tell me, when are congratulations due?”

She waves away the flippant remark. “Shut up and listen.” This takes him by surprise, but he does not protest. “I need you to get dressed and go to Justiciar Walter’s audience chamber, to be certain that you’re the first visitor he sees today, and you must tell him what you told Richard and Brewer before about Guy’s part in the siege… and if you get a chance, tell him what you told me about Guy’s family and how they lost their land. I’ll go talk to him later myself, and I’ll go ask Brewer to do the same next, but the more of us do it, the better.”

Archer, now seated on the bed with Marian standing before him, vigorously shakes his head, as if literally trying to clear cobwebs. “Wait… what’s all this about? And why is it so urgent? Besides, I know Guy is going to meet with Walter, why can’t he speak for himself?”

“Because he intends to speak _against_ himself, that’s why,” she snaps, though coming to think of it, Archer is likely an innocent party for once. “He told me as much last night…” She breaks off at the belated realisation. “You mean you _knew_ he was going to speak to Walter?” Maybe Archer is not so innocent after all; but even with all their brotherly conspiracies, she doubts these would extend to helping Guy get killed.

“He told me he’d ask for an audience, but I thought he was going to propose himself as one of those new knight constables for Nottinghamshire, after what Walter said at the Council.”

Marian scowls. So somewhere between the Council and the feast, these two rascals had a chance to compare notes. _No_, she realises, they were _at_ the Council together, seated somewhere behind her back. No matter.

“It can’t be that bad, whatever he’s going to confess,” Archer offers, most unhelpfully. He clearly has no idea.

“It _is_ that bad, believe me.”

He has picked up on her funereal tone. “Like _treason_ bad?”

“Like _trying to kill the king_ bad,” she mutters, and Archer whistles.

Marian keeps him fixed with a pointed glare. “Do you want your one remaining brother dead? And branded a traitor to boot?”

“No, but it doesn’t change the fact that my one remaining brother is a suicidal fool.”

Marian cannot argue with this, but chooses not to hell him that _she_ is the real reason Guy is so doggedly chasing a death sentence.

“Well, _I’m_ not a suicidal fool and I’m rather worried about renewing my acquaintance with one Harold Bardulf,” Archer muses.

“You had no compunction renewing your acquaintance with his wife yesterday,” Marian cannot help pointing out.

“Of which he has been blissfully ignorant up to now,” Archer counters. “If he sees me now, he may put two and two together between his wife’s sudden sickness yesterday and my – “

Marian jumps in before he can finish. “I’m not telling you to talk to Harold Bardulf, I’m telling you to talk to Hubert Walter. Bardulf doesn’t have to know.”

“But he _will_ know, most likely,” Archer grumbles. “What I heard Walter does is, he holds most of these audiences here together with Bardulf, but making a point of excluding Geoffrey. At least that’s what he did yesterday.”

_Of course_. Walter may be a wise statesman, but apparently cannot resist a chance to upstage his petty rival.

“Didn’t Bardulf see you here at the April Council already?” she reminds Archer. “Surely the offence was fresher in his mind then…”

“That’s the thing, he wasn’t here. He’d just been accused of treason two weeks prior, and even when they lifted the accusation by the time Richard was here and gave him new Sheriff posts, he was still sore about losing this one, and sat out the Council in his country manor feigning an illness.”

Feigning illnesses runs in the Bardulf family, it seems. “Ah. Well, either way, if your offence against Bardulf consisted of bedding his wife, it’s not something he’ll be eager to bring up in Walter’s presence. Just act humble and let it be known how much you repent your past behaviour. Even if you really don’t.”

“Like my brother.”

“No, _not_ like your brother. _Un_like you, he really means it.”

Archer sighs. “Then there’s still the matter of why I was in jail here in the first place.”

“Which is?” Marian prompts.

“A trade deal gone wrong.”

“You tried to swindle him,” she translates.

“Not him personally, but broadly speaking, yes.”

She rolls her eyes and sets off pacing around the chamber. “In-bloody-credible. Well, anyway, now you are a respectable lord of a manor, Bardulf is no longer Sheriff so he cannot hang you, and even if he _says_ he wants you hanged, Sheriff Geoffrey won’t do it, if only to spite a friend of Walter’s. Besides, you can mention that you are related to Robin, who Walter knows was a hero of the siege…”

Archer cuts her short, shaking his head.

“Won’t work.” Seeing her bewilderment, he explains: “See, Robin and Guy came here to rescue me from the dungeon, and in getting away we… wrought a bit of mayhem and nearly got hanged, all three of us. So speaking of Robin in Bardulf’s presence is not a good idea…” His face darkens. “Nor is speaking of Guy, for that matter.”

Marian stops in front of him and bites her lip; this complication is news to her. She is about to offer her help in luring Bardulf away from the chamber on some made-up pretext, should he be there, when she gets an idea.

“Well then, it’s time you used your lecherous depredations for a good cause,” she mutters wryly.

Archer looks up at her. “In what way?”

“Ask your dear lady friend to keep her husband busy and distracted this morning while you and I…” _And Sheriff Brewer, hopefully_. “…go talk to Walter one-on-one.”

Archer frowns. “I can’t send her a note, it’s too risky… I can talk to her maid, though… all right, I’ll do it.”

She leans over to kiss him on the cheek.

“Like I keep saying, you’re an angel, Archer. Come on, get dressed and off you go.”

***

Marian was never much good at embroidery at the best of times, but this is _ridiculous_.

She pokes dejectedly at the frame as she sits in an alcove a few feet away from Hubert Walter’s audience chamber, watching the half dozen nobles pace and fidget before her. Her errand with William Brewer, while necessary and successful – at least in terms of persuading him to talk to Walter on Guy’s behalf, whatever the outcome of that might be – has meant that by the time she got here herself mid-morning, there was already a small crowd waiting their turn to speak to the Chief Justiciar, and to help her while away the time and deal with mounting anxiety, she asked her maid to scrounge up an embroidery frame, a needle and some strands of coloured thread. Not an unreasonable idea in principle, but her modest skill combined with her distracted state of mind has so far produced a disastrous-looking stalk sprouting misshapen bluebells that resemble thistles.

If only this were the greatest of her worries.

Closer to noon, the scraggly bluebells have been joined by a dozen very lopsided daisies and a rather angular butterfly; she is pondering whether to further adorn her masterpiece with a ladybug when her turn finally comes up. Leaving the embroidery frame on the windowsill – she may pick it up on her way out if there is no one to witness her shame, and if she is not in tears by then – Marian is motioned on by the clerk, and gingerly steps through the door.

“Your Grace.”

Walter is still the same handsome man she recalls from the day before; she cannot explain the sense of dread that fills her upon meeting his eyes.

“My lady…” He looks slightly bewildered to see her. Her name was given to him by the clerk, true, but it is obvious that he is struggling to place her, as it were. Well, she can help steer him in the right direction.

“If I may humbly ask for but a few moments of Your Grace’s time,” she begins, “there is but one matter I wish to speak of. I am the daughter of the former Sheriff of Nottingham…”

He looks up sharply at this. “Not Vasey, surely?”

His ignorance may be forgiven considering that her father’s tenure long predates his appointment to Chief Justiciar, but she does not need to feign the shudder.

“Oh no, Heaven help me.” She hopes he does not consider it blasphemy. “Vasey replaced my father, and went so far as to take him prisoner until he died in Vasey's custody.”

Walter’s face softens. “My condolences.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. I also recently lost my husband, the Earl of Huntingdon, in the siege of Nottingham.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“But I am here to speak to you of a different matter.” Albeit one closely connected to all of the above. “I dare implore Your Grace for… consideration toward a… friend of mine.” Should have said _good friend_. Whatever. “I am speaking of Sheriff Brewer’s lieutenant, and my husband’s comrade-in-arms at the siege, Lord Gisborne…”

Walter’s face perks up with recognition, but she cannot discern how well, or how ill, he may think of Guy. “Ah yes. The handsome one with a death wish.” Truer words were never spoken, she thinks, but she is unnerved by how stern he sounds; so much so that she stays silent.

“You, my lady, are the third person today to speak to me in favour of Lord Gisborne; apart from himself, who instead argued very eloquently and in some detail why he ought to be condemned and put to death.”

Her shoulders sag. Just as he said he would.

“And I must say that it was his testimony, more than that of Lord Locksley, Sheriff Brewer or yourself, that has determined my verdict...”

She may have gasped at this; she is not sure, because she is feeling too dizzy to notice.

“…in his favour,” Walter concludes, and she manages to exhale.

“He told me of his part in Sheriff Vasey’s scheming, and of the purpose of his voyage with Vasey to the Holy Land a year ago,” the Chief Justiciar continues, “and I admit that had I known this at the beginning of this year, after I was made Chief Justiciar, I would have voted to sentence him to death. But I do believe Lord Gisborne is a reformed man today. As a man of the cloth, I am all in favour of penitent sinners, and as a statesman, which I dare consider myself, I believe that an honourable former adversary who has renounced his old misdeeds is more trustworthy than many of the fickle allies we are surrounded by,” me muses aloud, more for his own benefit than for Marian’s, though by now she wholeheartedly agrees with every word he says. “I happen to believe in judging people based on their present conduct and frame of mind, not merely their past offences, of which everyone is guilty to an extent; or else in these turbulent times we would all be left to fend on our own.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” For that matter, as far as Guy was concerned, Robin thought the same thing.

“And with His Highness being preoccupied with his campaign in France, I do not see any pressing reason to bring the account of what happened in Acre, and who it was that sought to attack him, to his attention anytime soon… or ever, provided that Lord Gisborne maintains his resolve to stay on the righteous path.”

_Well, if he does not_, she thinks, _I’ll bloody lock him up myself before he gets to any mischief_; but she chooses not to say it.

“I must admit,” Walter begins in a tone that carries an unexpected shade of wry amusement, “Lord Gisborne and I have discovered that we have something in common.” _Besides the good looks, you mean_? Thankfully, she has managed not to grin too broadly at the thought. “He told me a rather… enjoyable account of how he personally fought the Count of Mortain earlier this year, when the latter took it upon himself to usurp his brother’s crown. I have not had that pleasure myself and my station makes it rather unlikely, but my brother and I did besiege a couple of castles he had occupied at that same time. Still, if it were to happen again, I’d be glad to avail myself of Lord Gisborne’s services.”

She hopes the occasion never arises, but is pleased to hear it nonetheless.

Walter raises a quizzical eyebrow at her. “I trust we can consider this matter concluded to your satisfaction, my lady.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Now she is free to smile as brightly as she pleases.

“Is there anything else you wished to discuss?”

_Could you maybe instruct my brother-in-law in the moral wrongness of fornication?_ She bites her lip instead. “No, Your Grace, I do not wish to take up any more of your time.”

“I assure you it was no imposition,” he replies with a hint of a smile. “God bless you, and I wish you the best of luck, my lady, in all your endeavours.”

She bows to him and leaves, not quite sure if she just imagined the Chief Justiciar giving her a wink.

.

TBC

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Count of Mortain was Prince John’s official title until he became King.  
Incidentally, Hubert Walter makes an appearance in ep 3x08 (John’s “coronation”), but in keeping with the show’s relaxed approach to historical accuracy, he is an old man there; the real Walter was about 35 at the time. On the plus side, he had an honourable portrayal in that ep. I keep the fake coronation here as a plot reference, but in my version, Walter was too busy waging war on John (as he did IRL at the time) to attend it; I am assuming Geoffrey officiated it instead, especially as it was in his purview as Archbishop of York. But Walter's “in-fic” attitude to past transgressions is true to reality, considering that he went on to become King John’s Lord Chancellor.


	9. York city environs, August 16th

She half hopes that Guy, now that he got to keep his head, be it against his will or not, will accompany her to the joust rather than ride in it; and before going to look for Archer to take her to the lists, she asks a servant about the whereabouts of Lord Gisborne’s chamber and goes to knock on the door. She is momentarily thrilled when the door is opened, and tries to hide her disappointment when it reveals none other than her brother-in-law.

“Long time no see,” he ventures brightly. “How did your audience go?”

“Very well, all things considered. Walter is a wise man and a good judge of human nature, and he chose not to do Guy’s bidding and decided to keep him alive and free. What about yours?”

“Much the same. So we’re all set to go see the joust?”

“I take it Guy is taking part in it.”

“I suppose so,” Archer ventures vaguely, even though there can hardly be another explanation for his taking up residence in Guy’s chamber, now that all three of them have spoken to Walter.

“Well then, let’s go see how he’s doing.”

“Assuming he hasn’t been taken out by now,” is Archer’s unhelpful suggestion, though the thought did cross Marian’s mind. It is past noon, and the joust has been going on for a while since late morning. “Still, it should be fun watching the rest, and you may see others you know who you might like to cheer for.”

They descend into the courtyard and take Archer’s carriage – that is, Guy’s old carriage from Locksley Manor – to the tournament grounds just north of the city. With tournaments banned until two years earlier, Marian has never been to one, and compared to the typical county fetes featuring, at most, a fair and an archery contest, this one is at once more sophisticated and somehow rowdier, with a big, noisy, excited crowd lining the spectator galleries; had it not been for Archer expertly steering the two of them up the gallery steps and into free seats he had spotted, she might have got lost, or stuck in a seat without a good view of the proceedings.

It is an impressive spectacle indeed; the knights galloping atop splendid chargers and muscular destriers, their shining armour covered by bright tunics, cloaks fluttering like wings at their backs, and sporting brilliant plumages on their helmet crests. But even from her present excellent vantage point, she has trouble figuring out what exactly is going on, with successive pairs of knights charging at each other seemingly at random, pointing their lances at each other seeking to unhorse one another, or at least strike the opponent's shield, with mixed results. She can only assume that this will somehow lead to the selection of the best fighter, judging by the fact that there is a prize waiting for the victor in the box where Sheriff Geoffrey and Harold Bardulf are sitting along with the brightly-dressed Gwyneth, apparently cured of her yesterday’s affliction, and a handful of guests of honour. Even from a distance, it is hard to miss the massive, rotund gold cup gleaming in the sunlight, flanked by two armed guards on a sort of low pedestal in front of Geoffrey.

Archer, in the meantime, has excused himself and slipped away to speak to one of the heralds, so as to figure out what stage the proceedings are at and whether his brother is still among the contenders. Marian tries to concentrate on the spectacle but cannot keep her thoughts from wandering; more precisely, she watches the charging knights trying to see if any one of them looks like he could be Guy, but she is not having much success. The heralds announce the contenders' names before each joust, but she cannot really hear them at this distance.

A short while later Archer is back, and she turns to him, trying to hide her impatience.

“Well?”

Archer, ever the smooth liar, looks hesitant. “I’m not sure… they are just finishing the second round to get to the final four, and I’m not sure if he’s still in the running. The herald couldn't recall.”

Marian gives him a hard stare. “The truth, Archer. Has he been knocked out?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

But she knows that _Archer_ and _honesty_ do not belong in the same sentence, most of the time. “Or has he been wounded?” Hopefully, the monster has not managed to get himself killed on the jousting field right after getting a pardon from Walter.

“No, I’m sure he hasn’t.” This time her brother-in-law’s tone carries more conviction. “There have been two knights wounded so far, both of them lightly, and neither one is him.”

“Oh well.” She purses her lips. Could be worse. “So what’s been going on here, anyway?”

“From what I gathered, they’re holding it as a Round Table.”

“And what would that be?”

“It’s a recent Continental thing, a sort of elimination joust. They didn’t have nearly enough knights to form melee parties, with only sixteen contenders.” It may seem a rather low number considering that there are about a hundred noblemen present; but then, with half of them too old to compete, and many of the younger ones unable to afford a warhorse and armour, and most of them inexperienced in the art of tournament combat considering the nearly forty-year-long ban and probably afraid of injury, it might be a wonder that they ended up with even this many. “So they divided them into four groups of four, and each knight within each group rode against the other three, and the top two from each group advanced into the second round of eight, where they were divided into two groups and did the same thing again within each group. As soon as they are finished now, they will announce the final four, that is the top two from each group, and those will ride against each other in two pairs, and the winners from each pair will joust for the prize.”

So, if she understands correctly, each of the four knights that will be announced now will have faced off against six other knights in two rounds, and has to have defeated at least two out of three opponents in each round, to get to this stage. Guy may not be _as bad as she thinks_, but these are fairly slim odds. She just hopes he is unhurt, and does not take it too hard if he does not make it to the next round.

Presently trumpets blare to announce the conclusion of the second round, and the ensuing lull finally lets her hear the remaining contenders’ names being proclaimed.

She is disappointed in spite of herself when she does not hear Guy’s name, but surprised to hear two other familiar names among the four knights.

Perhaps it should not really surprise her that William De Ferrers, Vasey’s successor and Brewer’s young and dashing predecessor as Sheriff of Nottingham, is among these; he certainly distinguished himself at the siege, and is known as a glamorous courtier while being, no less importantly, a vassal of John’s; as such, he surely had plenty of opportunity to hone his skills on French tournament fields. And judging by the chorus of approbation his name elicits, he seems to be favoured to win the event.

The name that does surprise her, and brings forth an unexpected but nonetheless excited cheer from her, is that of Gerard Nevill. So his enthusiastic account to her the night before was not merely innocent bragging; he really must be good to have made it thus far.

The other two, a Frenchman, Roger De Courcy, and an Englishman, Sir Gavin Fitz Patrick, are unknown to her; but for a moment, seeing Fitz Patrick’s imposing frame and the bright yellow plumage on his helmet, she wonders if this is in fact Guy riding under an assumed, albeit similar-sounding name. She cannot fathom why he would do so; but if this is the case, she may have yet another contender to cheer for.

Before long, the first of the final three jousts is being set up, with De Ferrers and Fitz Patrick riding to the opposite ends of the field in preparation for the charge. She notes, not altogether approvingly, that De Ferrers is rather too obviously enjoying his favoured status, making a boastful display as he sets his charger to a canter toward his starting position, no doubt to show off his scarlet cloak and matching plumage swaying gracefully with the horse’s movements. Once in position, he makes a show of playing with his lance, demonstrating his agility in wielding the heavy weapon. Marian wishes that Fitz Patrick, whether he is or is not Gisborne in reality, would unseat this precocious winner; but her hopes are frustrated when his forceful charge is stopped short by a well-aimed tilt from De Ferrers; the massive black destrier Fitz Patrick was riding stops rooted to the spot while its rider, with his heavy armour, tumbles off to one side. Mercifully, Marian’s worry is short-lived when Fitz Patrick soon gets back to his feet, and especially as he then unbuckles his helmet strap to reveal a full head of blond hair.

As soon as the first two leave the field, the knights making up the second pair ride into the enclosure, and on to their designated positions. Nevill gives her further cause for approval when she sees his relatively simple attire, with a white tunic and cloak and a simple helmet unadorned by plumes; quite a contrast to De Ferrers’ finery. The Frenchman, his opponent, is attired with greater care, his crested helmet crowned with lush black-and-white plumes; and, she notices, he is wearing perhaps the lightest armour of the final foursome, with only a breastplate protecting his torso and the rest made up by chain mail; a risky choice as it increases the likelihood of injury from a lance strike that would glance off plate armour, but one that literally leaves the wearer more room for manoeuvre. It also allows him to ride a more agile horse, a charger rather than the heavier destrier, like De Ferrers and unlike the other two. Still, she hopes that Nevill manages to overcome the relative handicap and makes it to the final duel; even if he ends up losing to De Ferrers, Marian would like to see him advance as far as he can, and she cheers for him again when he takes his position.

This does not go unnoticed by her escort, and seeing Archer’s raised eyebrows, she answers him with a curt, “What?”

“I didn’t know you had favourites from among these,” Archer remarks in a studied casual tone.

“I met him at yesterday’s feast, before I ran into Guy,” she explains. _Guy, of whose presence you did not think of informing me_; but she lets it go for now. “He’s a really sweet boy, but there’s nothing more to it.”

She cannot immediately understand why Archer responds with a dirty look before she realises it must have been her choice of words. “I meant _boy_ in terms of maturity, not age,” she is forced to add. “He’s about my age but he has never been anywhere beyond York and his family manor.”

Archer answers with a smirk; it looks like he has accepted her oblique apology; and by now his attention is riveted to the field, where the pair of contestants are charging toward each other. But even before they meet, Marian can tell that the two are not evenly matched.

Nevill sets his destrier to full gallop at once and holds fast to his lance, hoping to defeat his opponent with the force of impact; De Courcy, meanwhile, starts off a touch slower, giving himself an instant to gauge the other man’s intentions, and picks up speed as the distance between them shortens. By the time they are a few yards apart, the two are riding at equal speed; but where Nevill’s lance aim has shifted during the charge, De Courcy has used the approach to carefully aim his, delivering a precise but powerful strike to Nevill’s shield. To Nevill’s credit, he manages to stay astride his horse, but the impact is sufficient to break the girth of his saddle, so that the slightest imbalance is likely to send him to the ground.

He is, for all intents and purposes, defeated; and yet she sees De Courcy ride up to him and tilt up his helmet visor a notch, addressing the other man. There is no way to hear what is being said, but seeing how Nevill shakes his head and ends his own response in a respectful bow, it looks like De Courcy was offering him the chance of a rematch, which Nevill declined. Marian may be sad to see her would-be champion lose, but at least he lost without an embarrassing fall, and to a gracious opponent.

Another fanfare signifies the arrival of the final joust, and the remaining two knights, De Ferrers and De Courcy, ride again into the field. This time both indulge in a demonstration of skill in handling both their chargers and their weapons before the decisive duel, but where De Ferrers goes all out in flashy trickery, De Courcy matches it with a display that is rather no-nonsense and, by virtue of this, more elegant. Despite De Ferrers’ favoured status, his opponent appears aware and even confident of his own superiority, but not compelled to show it off. Now that Marian has a choice of two knights to cheer for in the final joust, she is in no doubt that her sympathies are with De Courcy over De Ferrers.

When De Ferrers starts his charge with his lance held high, as if already celebrating his victory, Marian wonders bleakly if she was destined to cheer for the losing party in each of the three concluding encounters; but moments before the decisive clash, their fortunes take an abrupt turn.

De Ferrers’ aim was to strike the tall crest of his opponent’s helmet; a narrow target but a formidable score if he pulled it off. It should not inflict much physical damage upon his opponent other than knocking off his helmet – unless his aim was off and his lance struck the other in the faceplate, in which case it would end up lethal – but it was meant, above all, to strike fear, and force De Courcy either to turn his horse, swivelling away from the strike, or to duck his head, in which case the impact with De Ferrers' shield an instant later would likely knock him out of the saddle; he would lose either way.

What De Ferrers has not counted on is his opponent’s steadfast resolve; De Courcy charges on toward him, undeterred, pointing his lance at the other man’s shield. An instant before impact, he guides his horse mere inches to one side, adjusting his lance aim but completely throwing off De Ferrers’ aim while delivering a devastating blow to his shield. It takes all the former Sheriff’s skill to stay in the saddle, but the impact easily broke the leather straps binding the shield to his arm, sending it tumbling down, and De Ferrers himself lurches rather gracelessly in the saddle before steadying himself.

Upon seeing this, Marian jumps to her feet with a triumphant cry, happy to see De Ferrers’ vanity defeated by superior skill. Next to her, she notices Archer shake his head and mutter _you magnificent bastard_ under his breath as a show of appreciation, and muses distantly that the designation is much more accurately applied to Archer himself.

She wants to stay and watch as the award is presented to the winner, but once he has taken a turn riding around the field, he goes to the Sheriff’s box to exchange a few words with Geoffrey, and gallops off to shouts of acclaim. There is not much left to see, it seems, and she is glad when Archer pulls her away to his preferred event of the day, the archery contest.

Here, at least, she knows from the outset who to cheer for, and has no compunctions urging on the favoured winner. Archer haughtily declares that one of the two contests, consisting of shooting a clay pot at a hundred yards, is beneath his dignity, a claim he confirms by shooting at, and hitting, the wooden pole the pot is perched on, leaving the other contenders to fight out that contest; but he takes great care in aiming his arrow for the other target, a coin placed at fifty yards, and hits it dead centre, a feat unmatched by any of the other challengers. Thus Archer is justly adjudicated one of the two 50-mark prizes; but seeing how it is being given out by Harold Bardulf, who ambled over from the tournament field to preside over this contest, Archer has to ask Marian to collect it for him; and while she accomplishes the task, it allows her to score her own mark by teasing Archer that this would not have been necessary had he not been too intent on snatching _another kind of prize_ from Bardulf’s arms.

***

The day and the assembly are both concluded with a final feast; it is no less lavish than the one the day before, but Marian’s mind is wandering. Archer, once again, excused himself from the proceedings on account of Bardulf’s co-presidency, and Guy, as it turns out, is nowhere to be seen; and this time Marian herself seeks out Gerard Nevill, offering him a mix of congratulations for his impressive performance and condolences for missing out on the final victory, assuring him that this was merely the first of many tournament opportunities he has had. All in all, it is not that bad of an evening; after the upheaval of the night before and the morning, she is glad to sit back, enjoy the food and drink, and listen distractedly as admiring toasts are being raised in honour of the absentee tournament winner; for De Courcy, it turns out, had urgent business to attend to and could not make it to the feast. Still, as soon as the feast is over and before the minstrels arrive, she bids good night to Nevill and hurries off in the direction of Guy’s chamber. Whatever Archer said must be a lie; he _must_ be wounded, or else he would have been at the feast. Either that, or he is so upset about his performance in the joust that he has decided to starve himself as punishment.

This time no one answers when she knocks on the door; she tries again to no avail, and after a third attempt she stalks off. Now, she thinks, Guy will sulk in Nottingham for weeks, possibly nursing a wound in secret. Her disappointment leads her to seek a culprit, or at least a scapegoat; so she sets off toward Archer’s chamber next.

Her summons is answered here, albeit not immediately; Archer’s appearance at the door is preceded by a bout of high-pitched giggles from behind it that do not sound anything like Gwyneth. Evidently Archer is enjoying the perks of his newly established status as the contest winner.

“Where is he?” she snaps as soon as Archer has greeted her; she notices that he has closed the door behind him and is talking to her in the gallery.

“Where is _who_?”

She has had it with the feigned innocence. “You know who. Your brother, damn it.”

“I think he went back to Nottingham.”

“You _think_.”

Her accusing stare must have worked, for Archer sighs and spills at least some of the figurative beans.

“He said he was going back there, when I saw him after the joust, after he’d been to the armourer’s to return the armour I had borr- that he had borrowed,” Archer corrects himself, too late.

“The armour _you_ had borrowed,” Marian says pointedly. “You knew about this all along and you never breathed a word of it to me.”

Archer casts his eyes down in a show of remorse. “What could I do… he told me he’d kick my arse if I told anybody, especially you.”

This, at least, sounds very much like the truth. “And where did you get the money for collateral to give for the armour?”

“Well…” Archer looks furtive again. “You see, I have this... technique… of making base metal look like gold, so I left a hoard of these coins with them…”

“You used counterfeit coins to get the armour.” It’s a wonder he has not been back in the dungeon since March.

“They never found out. As far as I know, Guy gave them back the armour undamaged, and collected the collateral so as to leave no evidence.”

At least if the armour is undamaged, he must indeed be uninjured. But it does not change the fact that Guy was taking a big risk with Archer’s help.

“How could you endanger your brother’s life like this, helping him get armour when you knew he almost died four months ago?”

Judging by Archer’s blank expression, he is back to his lying ways. “He asked me for a suit of armour, that’s all I knew. How would I know it was for the joust?”

“And what did you think it was for, romping with ladies?” Marian retorts, her eyes pointing purposely to his chamber door.

Archer just rolls his eyes at her in response before offering an argument in his defence. “Listen, I swear Guy’s fine. And we weren’t caught with the coins. What are you angry about?”

Coming to think of it, she is really angry with Guy and not Archer; and even then her sentiment is more akin to disappointment at not seeing him than anger, anyway. And maybe there is no point pretending. “Now he’s gone and who knows when we’ll meet again.”

Archer’s mischievous smirk is back in an instant. “Leave it to me. I’ll think of something.”

That, at least, is as good as certain. “I’m sure you will. Well then, go back to your… prize,” she finishes with a wry smile and turns to go to her own chamber even as Archer slips back into his to frolic with his unseen companion.

The first sign she has of anything being amiss, or at any rate out of the ordinary, is the guard she sees posted outside her chamber door. It is a painfully familiar sight; she was so used to having guards and minders in Nottingham Castle that she was more likely to be surprised not to see one; and here, her first instinct is to be alarmed and mentally search for a likely transgression of her part that would have brought this about. Maybe Archer’s trick with the counterfeit coins did not go unnoticed, and she is somehow implicated, she wonders sourly.

But the guard greets her with the utmost deference, and with a wide smile.

“Countess,” he utters as he bows to her, the grin still on his face.

“Good evening,” she says evenly. “Is everything all right?”

The guard is momentarily confused. “Oh yes, milady, everything’s fine. I am simply here to watch over the cup.”

At first this makes absolutely no sense to her. “The cup,” she repeats, before it hits her.

“The prize from the tournament, the Sheriff had it brought to you upon milord De Courcy’s instructions –” the guard is saying presently, but Marian is no longer listening. She is through the door already, stepping tentatively and rather unsteadily toward the gleaming trophy on the table, as the seemingly random events of the past two days fall into place with earth-shattering clarity.

Guy’s dismissive “I’m not as bad as you may think” the night before. His earlier promise to _think of something_ when talking about payment for restoring Knighton Hall. Archer’s furtive errands in between cavorting with Gwyneth and who knows who else, and his cryptic commentary during the joust. And finally, the elusive De Courcy absent from the feast in his honour because of _urgent business_.

So he thought he would incriminate himself to Walter, stay free long enough to fight for the prize, and then calmly go to his death, thinking he would thus have settled his scores with her; and when Walter pardoned him before the joust, he still did not want to enjoy the fame that was due to him for his brilliant victory, even as his alter ego was being toasted at the feast. And all this time she believed he had been knocked out of the joust early on, and was worried that he was hiding somewhere licking his wounds, as it were. _Magnificent bastard_, indeed, she recalls Archer’s comment as she swipes absently at the tears welling up.

A slender rolled-up strip of vellum catches her eye at the bottom of the cup; it turns out that the extravagant gift arrived with what looks like a very short note, and she cannot keep her hands from trembling as she unrolls it.

For an instant she is seized by acute dread that the note will turn out to be a farewell, but instead she finds two lines in a familiar hand, but in a less familiar language; still, her cursory knowledge suffices to grasp its meaning.

_Cela appartient à la dame  
qui m'a ramené d'entre les morts_

This belongs to the lady who brought me back from the dead.

That favour, she thinks, is mutual.

.

TBC

.

(this is really the first para of the footnote, but the thing got so long that I ran into the 5K character limit)

if you think this will smoothly segue into wedding preparations, you may be in for a twist or two 😉 For one thing, before it is revealed where our antihero will find himself in the finale, he will have to explain how exactly he got to be so good at jousting. Stay tuned for the next chapter – I’ll try to post it tomorrow – but for now, I am adding here the second and final RL history lesson courtesy of Wikipedia, this time concerning tournaments; if you’d rather not get mired in the particulars, there is a TL;DR at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tournaments initially centered on the _mêlée_, a general fight consisting of knights fighting one another on foot or mounted, either divided into two sides coming together in a charge or fighting as a free-for-all. The object was to capture opposing knights so that they could be ransomed, and this could be a very profitable business for skilled knights. The melee was the main form of tournament in the 12th and 13th centuries. 
> 
> The _joust_, a single combat of two knights riding at each other, was a component of the tournament from as early as it can be observed, but originally was not its main feature. It was an evening prelude to the big day, and was also a preliminary to the grand charge on the day itself. 
> 
> In the 12th century jousting was occasionally banned in tournaments. The reasons given are that it distracted knights from the main event, and allowed a form of cheating. Count Philip of Flanders made a practice in the 1160s of turning up armed with his retinue to the preliminary jousts, and then declining to join the mêlée until the knights were exhausted and ransoms could be swept up. 
> 
> But jousting had its own devoted constituency by the early 13th century, and in the 1220s it began to have its own exclusive events outside the tournament. In 1223, we have the first mention of an exclusively jousting event, the Round Table held in Cyprus by John d'Ibelin, lord of Beirut. Round Tables, an elimination jousting event, were a 13th-century fashion.
> 
> Tournaments were held at all times of the year except Lent (the forty days preceding Easter). The general custom was to hold them on Mondays and Tuesdays [NB “mine” was held on a Tuesday], though any day except Friday and Sunday could be used. 
> 
> Parties were hosted by the principal magnates present, and preliminary jousts (called the _vespers_ or _premières commençailles_) offered knights an individual showcase for their talents. The next day, in mid-morning, the knights would line up for the charge. Following the tournament the patron of the day would offer lavish banquets and entertainment. Prizes were offered to the best knight on either side, and awarded during the meals. 
> 
> There is no doubting the massive popularity of the tournament. The most famous tournament fields were in northeastern France (such as that between Ressons-sur-Matz and Gournay-sur-Aronde near Compiègne, in use between the 1160s and 1240s) which attracted hundreds of foreign knights from all over Europe for the 'lonc sejor' (the tournament season). The great tournaments of northern France attracted many hundreds of knights from Germany, England, Scotland, Occitania and Iberia. There is evidence that 3000 knights attended the tournament at Lagny-sur-Marne in November 1179 promoted by Louis VII in honour of his son's coronation.
> 
> Despite this huge interest and wide distribution, royal and ecclesiastical authority was deployed to prohibit the event. The reason for the ban imposed in England by Henry II lay in the persistent threat to public order. Knights going to tournaments were accused of theft and violence against the unarmed, and Henry II was keen to re-establish public order in England after the disruption of the reign of King Stephen. He did not prohibit tournaments in his continental domains, and indeed three of his sons were avid pursuers of the sport. 
> 
> Tournaments were allowed in England once again after 1192, when Richard I identified six sites where they would be permitted and gave a scale of fees by which patrons could pay for a license. But both King John and his son, Henry III, introduced fitful and capricious prohibitions which much annoyed the aristocracy and eroded the popularity of the events. 
> 
> By using costumes, drama and symbolism, tournaments became a form of art, which considerably raised the expenses for these events. They had political purposes, to impress the populace and guests with their opulence, as well as with the courage of the participants. 
> 
> A detailed RL account of a well-known 12th-century knight’s tournament career can be found here: http://www.castlewales.com/marshal_tour.html
> 
> **TL;DR:** unlike my plot (and the usual imagery), until the early 13th century tournaments centered on the melee, a group battle, rather than the one-on-one joust. In making the joust the main event here, I anticipate medieval RL by about a quarter of a century. My “in-fic” reason is that they did not have enough participants at hand at what was, in this case, a “side show” at the Council rather than a standalone event. The elimination procedure I came up with for the (real) “Round Table” was <strike>inspired by football championships</strike> my invention, so as to make Guy’s victory more impressive by giving him more opponents to defeat. Also, for plot purposes, I had Guy receive the prize at the end of the joust rather than at the evening feast.


	10. Locksley Manor, St Matthew’s Day, September 21st

Her first hint that she and Archer may have a visitor is when she sees an unfamiliar horse being led into the stables as she rides up to the palisade from her latest trip to the now-complete Knighton Hall; she took a minor detour by way of Nettlestone to see if the villagers needed anything, but figured she would still come back in time for dinner. As she dismounts and takes her own mare to the stables, she is able to take a closer look at the new arrival – the animal, that is – and realises with a sudden thrill that the horse is not unfamiliar after all. She has definitely seen this glorious black charger on the tournament field in York; which means that Guy has finally, and not a month too soon, deemed it proper to pay them a visit; or more likely, that Archer has finally cajoled him into doing so. Whatever; he is here and that is good enough. But the realisation also has her perform a somewhat embarrassing stealthy dash up to her chamber by way of the servants’ stairway, so that she could change from her plain dark riding habit into a more presentable, closer-fitting and lower-cut dove grey brocade gown before facing Archer and Guy in the hall downstairs.

The good thing is, they both look pleased to see her; but unsurprisingly, it falls to Archer to do the talking.

“Marian, you’re back!” Archer happily proclaims. “How was your trip?”

“Good,” she assures him. “The house is finished, I just need to commission the furniture and it will be ready.” She can take her time with the full set, but a bed, a table and half a dozen chairs would be a good start.

“That’s great! I mean I’ll miss you staying here, but I’m glad all your hard work is over.”

Admittedly, her hard work consisted mostly of nagging the workmen, but she cannot argue that the daily trips to Knighton and the long days eventually got tiring.

“Guy and I were just talking about having dinner,” Archer continues, seeing how Guy has apparently decided against joining the conversation. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Starving.” It is no exaggeration; after spending most of the day between riding to Knighton, inspecting the final work done on the manor, visiting the nearby village, then riding over to Nettlestone, and riding back, all this on a reasonably breezy day, she feels like she could eat a horse.

“Great,” Archer repeats as he gets up and walks over to the kitchen to tell the maids to set the table.

In the few moments that she and Guy are alone, Marian it tempted to say a dozen things and ask him a dozen more, but instead they while away the time in awkward silence, hardly looking at each other. Her own lack of courage is an unwelcome surprise; and apparently, Guy is only relaxed and talkative at big feasts… and hours before a presumed death sentence. It is as if their last meeting, and the incredible day that followed, had never happened.

Presently Archer is back; the three of them walk over into the dining room, and conversation resumes thanks to Archer’s gracious efforts at playing host.

“So, how’s the castle rebuilding going on?”

This is obviously addressed to Guy, but most likely the question is for her benefit, considering that Archer and Guy were here before she arrived and would have had a chance to talk about it had they wanted to.

“Fine,” Guy says with a slight shrug. “Almost done, in fact. Now that we have the outer curtain wall and the keep finished, and the drawbridge assembled and working, there isn’t that much left to do. They are working on the keep roof now and we’ll need to finish the inner wall, but I think it will be done by Lent, or by Easter at the latest. In fact Brewer wants to move into his apartments by Christmas.”

“I bet he’s pleased,” Archer supplies.

“Reasonably so,” Guy concedes. “He expected it to take a couple of years and it looks like it’ll be done in a year at this rate.”

“And then you can rest easy.”

“Looks like it.” He sounds non-committal.

“What are you planning to do next?” Finally, Archer is steering the discourse to a more interesting subject.

Guy does not answer at once. “I don’t know…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Brewer expects me to stay around, of course, but I haven’t decided. Now that the Chief Justiciar has told me he doesn’t see me as a threat to public order or to the king’s safety, I’m probably free to leave if I choose to as soon as the castle is finished. I might speak to Walter again, see if I can make myself more useful elsewhere.” Marian does her best to keep an impassive face, but her heart sinks at hearing this.

“Could _elsewhere_ include Locksley Manor, by any chance?” Archer ventures; Marian would hug him if she could.

Guy gives his brother a wide-eyed look. “Surely you aren’t thinking of building a castle here?”

“No,” Archer replies smugly. “I’m trying to run a manor here, and I confess that my extensive skills don’t cover this particular field of expertise. Marian has been a great help to me in showing me the ropes these past few months, but now that Knighton Hall is ready and she’ll be moving out, I’m kind of in need of an experienced partner. If you could be persuaded to stay and give me a hand, I’d be happy to split the rents with you, brother.”

Guy’s eyes go even wider at this unexpected generosity, and Marian must confess that she also believed Archer to be more mercenary. Apparently his appetites are more reasonable than she imagined0; or else his appreciation of family is greater than she realised. But Guy seems in no hurry to accept the excellent offer.

“Well, what do you say?” Archer prompts. “Do we have a deal?”

Guy raises an eyebrow. “I don’t see why not,” he says after a pause that was way too long for Marian’s liking. “Now that Marian is about to settle in Knighton, I suppose I won’t be in her way.”

He is still not _looking_ her way, or else he would have noticed her death glare. At least he did not call her _Lady_ Marian, but it is a small mercy. It bloody _hurts_ to be spoken of in these terms. And the worst part is, any objection she may deliver now will defeat the purpose as she is too offended to affect a light and friendly tone; so it will have to wait for later.

But maybe there is a way to make the most of this sorry situation.

“Speaking of which,” she says with all the cheer she can muster, “I plan to have a feast next month to celebrate the harvest in the new house. A housewarming of sorts, and of course I really hope to see both of you there.”

“Of course,” Archer jumps in readily. “I’ll look forward to it. Guy?” He turns quizzically to his brother, who looks as if he had just been invited to his own hanging.

“I’m honoured, but I ought to be in Nottingham,” he mutters, not quite looking at her.

_You just said your duties there are getting lighter. Don’t try this with _me_, Guy, I am a much better liar._ Was _a much better liar_. But she cannot call him out when he already looks as if he’d rather be elsewhere right now.

Thankfully, the rest of the dinner conversation is less awkward, consisting as it does of the three of them enthusiastically discussing the Locksley estate affairs; and Marian, having helped Archer with running it, can have her say about what works well, what does not and what needs to be done. But she cannot help noticing that Guy is still directing most of his remarks at Archer, and is drinking rather more than he did in York, where, admittedly, he must have been staying sober for the joust.

When, at the end of the dinner, as soon as the maids have cleared the plates and just after it got completely dark outside, Archer announces, much too early compared to his usual habits, that he is falling asleep and must go to bed, Marian is both hopeful and apprehensive. She sees Archer’s subterfuge for what it is, a good-natured attempt to keep his old promise to her in getting her and Guy together to air out their old grievances, but she is unsure of the outcome; at this rate, she will not put it past Guy to sit in silence for the rest of the evening; or worse yet, follow Archer’s example and pretend to go to bed. Well, at least she is prepared to seize the opportunity; and he is stuck here until morning at any rate.

True to her suspicion, no sooner does Archer go upstairs, his brother says something about how _he should probably_ – and she does not wait for him to finish the sentence.

“Guy, wait.” Marian has to force herself to remain seated, and not jump up to block his escape. She was so used to Guy chasing _her_ for two years that she could never imagine what it might feel like if their roles were reversed; now she knows it is frustrating as hell.

He looks up at her, but thankfully makes no objection.

Taking a deep breath, she does her best to hold his gaze. “I never had a chance to thank you for the cup…” she begins; and for once, this was not for lack of trying. She went to Nottingham in late August, as soon as they were back from York and as soon as she could get away from the Knighton project snags that had accumulated in her absence, only to find that Guy was away; and Archer later told her that he was not expected back for a while, as he had apparently gone to Doncaster looking for blacksmiths for the castle drawbridge assembly, and might go on to Tickhill or even back to York from there if he did not find suitable candidates. She briefly considered writing a letter to thank him, but decided that the matter called for a more personal expression of gratitude.

“…but it wouldn’t be fair of me to take such a valuable trophy from you when you could use it yourself,” she continues. In reality, rather than taking the cup to a goldsmith’s to have it melted down for its value, which must be close to two hundred marks judging by its weight, Marian still keeps it hidden in the Locksley cellar. Not that she has no use for the money – it would serve her very well in repaying the remainder of her loan to Brewer and the treasury, not to mention funding the furniture order – but Guy could probably use it just as well, towards buying land or a house of his own, should he choose to; and Marian thinks she ought to give him that opportunity.

“Absolutely not.” Curiously, while Guy’s reply is stern on the surface, he neither sounds nor looks angry; amused is more like it. But she won’t give up this easily.

“You won’t take it.”

“Not a chance.” He shakes his head for emphasis, and has to flip away the hair that ends up falling over his face.

“You refuse.”

“Definitely. It was the least I could do to make up for leaving you without a home.”

In her view, what he has done is almost too much, considering that he put his life and limb on the line to get it. But if she keeps arguing now, she probably _will_ end up causing offence.

“Only because you insist. But you took a huge risk to win it.” She sees how he is about to object, and has to admit that considering his evident skill, the odds were rather in his favour. “Even though it was incredible… _you_ were incredible, the way you fought.”

This, finally, helps produce a full-blown grin. “I told you I wasn’t bad.”

“You didn’t tell me you were _the best_.”

He shrugs, but the grin is still there. “And what good was bragging about my past victories, unless I won the joust?”

After seeing him in York, she figured that his magnificent performance was too accomplished to have been a fluke; but the mention of past victories is much too intriguing to let slip.

“Now that you _have_ won it, can I persuade you to brag?”

He chuckles, and looks away with the same curious faraway expression she recalls from York, when he brought up the French feasts. Not quite happy, not quite sad, but oddly wistful.

“I’ve been to quite a few tournaments, as you may have gathered. Never had a chance in the past fourteen years since I ended up in England, but before then, I did it non-stop for five years in France, and I really was much better on horseback with a lance than fighting with a sword, especially on foot.” Not that she noticed; in her view, with the glaring exception of the debacle in Acre, his swordfighting proficiency leaves nothing to be desired; but having seen him on horseback on countless occasions, she can easily believe that part. “My father trained me for warfare when I was a boy, before he left on the Crusade. He thought I might accompany him to the Holy Land when I grew up. And then when I lost him, and my sister and I went to France, it became the only way I could make a living for both of us.”

He pours himself another goblet, and continues, this time looking at her. “We had no close relatives there; well, there was our uncle’s family, but that’s another story. So we ended up in Normandy on our own, I was sixteen and Isabella was six, and there was no way I was letting either of us work as servants, but the only thing I knew how to do was fight. I offered my services to a local knight as a squire, it did not pay much but we got food and shelter, and I spent whatever time I could spare in continuing the training. So by the time I was eighteen I was quite good already, and ended up being knighted so I could ride in tournaments.”

“At eighteen?” She cannot hide her amazement.

He shrugs. “I was quite tall for my age, and well-trained. And I suppose I had better luck back then. Either way, I spent five years in Normandy fighting in the tournament seasons, and by the time I was twenty-two I had been declared winner at two out of the three big events held that year, the tournament season near Compiègne and the big tournament King Louis held at Lagny-sur Marne, near Paris, on All Saints Day, to celebrate the coronation of his son Philippe Auguste. That one had three thousand knights in it, so winning against fifteen in York wasn’t really the greatest challenge I’ve faced,” he concludes wryly, and Marian is aware that her jaw just dropped open.

“Then why did you fight under an assumed name?” she asks when she manages to speak again. “I thought you’d done it because you weren’t sure you would win…”

“No, it was rather because I hoped I would,” he counters. “You see, Roger De Courcy was my father’s name, the one he was born under, before he came to England and became Lord Gisborne. He was a younger son, so their father’s domain went to my uncle Gilbert, and my father decided he’d rather serve the king of England than be a landless vassal to his own brother, so he came to England and was given the land near Locksley here, and then he went on the Crusade and came back gravely ill. If my father had been the elder son, my parents would have stayed in France and I suppose everyone would have been better off. My parents for sure, Isabella, most likely, not to mention you and Robin…”

“If you mean we’d have been better off not meeting you…” she starts, before he cuts in.

“I take it as a given,” he says evenly.

“Well, _I_ don’t,” she parries quite forcefully. Sure, a year ago she would have been in full agreement; but now her view of this matter is very different, and from what she gathers, so was Robin’s by the time of the siege. “So you were fighting as your father,” she prompts him in a softer voice, if only to sidestep the argument.

“It was a way to honour his name,” Guy explains. “My own is pretty much beyond redemption,” he goes on, and she fights the urge to argue again, “and at any rate, when I entered the joust ranks, I wasn’t sure if I’d be a condemned criminal on the day of the event. Besides,” he adds with a smirk, “fighting as Guy of Gisborne wasn’t a good idea considering De Ferrers was in the running.”

“Well, he was no longer Sheriff, so he couldn’t fire you after you beat him,” Marian wonders aloud.

“No, but he’s spent a lot of time in Normandy and would have heard of me,” Guy points out. “In fact I was glad when Brewer replaced him here before I left Locksley for Nottingham in May. Even if that was before his time, I was quite well known there for a while, and I didn’t want him to bring up any of that. Especially on the off-chance that I didn’t win the joust. And either way,” he adds, in a quieter voice, “this way my father finally got the fame he always deserved, that he was robbed of by illness and bad fortune.”

Marian nods. “I heard from Archer what happened to your parents, and it’s heartbreaking. I’m really sorry. You never told me…” She trails off; it’s not as if she and Guy had many heart-to-heart chats. Coming to think of it, this is the second one ever.

“You never asked,” he counters; but his voice carries neither accusation nor bitterness. “Besides, I was hoping to start a new life, what use was it dwelling on the wretched past.”

She might argue that by never telling her, he never gave her a chance to get to know him; but in all brutal honesty, she may not have been that curious to get to know him in the first place, until now.

“So what happened next, after you won the tournaments?”

He does not immediately answer; she is not sure if asking the question was a mistake, especially when instead of responding, he pours himself a full goblet and downs it in one gulp. But when he speaks again, his voice is level, almost casual.

“For a while things were great. I was a local _cause célèbre_, as it were, and I enjoyed it to the fullest. Plenty of money, all that feasting, the best lodgings, the fastest horses, the most expensive armour, the most beautiful women… although if I were to think of it, the woman I probably spent the most on was my sister. I spoiled her rotten, I thought it ought to make up for our years of hardship. She’d get new dresses and jewels every week and a new carriage and horses every month before she was even an adolescent, and she could never get enough of those. It never occurred to me back then to save for a rainy day, as it were, I figured I was still young and in good health, and there was always the next tournament to enlist in.” He interrupts himself with a mirthless chuckle. “And then it all went to hell overnight when I was twenty-three.”

She is almost afraid to ask. “What happened?”

His face goes blank. When he answers, it is in that frightening flat voice of his; except that this time, the pain underneath is seeping through loud and clear, and he is not looking at her.

“Vasey happened; or rather, Hugh De Gournay happened first… though had it not been for Vasey, I’d have ended up dead and better off,” he begins darkly, and even though she might want to argue on that latter point, she can tell that now is not the time. “De Gournay was a local baron, filthy rich and powerful, and he had some ambitions regarding tournaments, above all to further enrich himself. He’d offered me his patronage, as it were, which I refused, as in practice it would mean I’d be fighting in his name. Needless to say, he didn’t take kindly to it. But what really sealed my fate was that his betrothed, Adeline De Vernon, fell in love with me, and it didn’t take me long to fall in love with _her_. He didn’t deserve to kiss the ground she walked on, if you ask me, and he hated me for getting in the way. And he found out on the eve of the big event, on the anniversary of the Lagny tournament, that I was going to ride as her champion, with her blessing.”

“And you were favoured to win.” By now she is certain of that.

“So much so that the betting stalls wouldn’t accept the bets. So maybe he just wanted to make money off the stakes,” Guy suggests bitterly. “Whatever his motives, he paid two of his thugs to get into my tent in the middle of the night on the eve of the tournament and wound me just badly enough to render me unable to fight, but not enough to kill me so as not to make me a martyred hero. And at the same time he got his manservants to steal my horses and armour, just to be certain. He figured I’d be asleep and not notice their approach, and he would have been right had it not been for my squire who got in the way. He screamed when they stabbed him, poor kid, and it woke me up. I killed the two who’d come after me, but of course the servants who took my armour ran back to their master and alerted him, and before I could figure out what was going on I was arrested for the murder of innocent citizens. They even accused me of killing my own squire for good measure.” He scowls. “And on top of that I was in debt for the armour. I’d just commissioned three suits and bought three good horses, to have spares for the big event, and was going to pay out of my winnings. So one day I was the lucky fool looking forward to winning yet another tournament in my lady’s name, and the next I was a condemned killer awaiting his fate in a dungeon. As you may have guessed, De Gournay had the local judges in his pocket.”

Marian feels the bile rise in her throat as she listens. It may have happened fourteen years ago, and Guy may have committed a good many transgressions of his own since, but injustice is injustice; and it makes her sick.

“And then Vasey showed up and bought me.”

“_Bought_ you?!” Just as she thought it was bad enough.

Guy looks down at the table. “I suppose he and De Gournay arranged this between themselves, and the judge and jailers were in on the cut. All I know is, Vasey paid two hundred marks, fifty for my life and one fifty to the armourers for the stolen armour and horses that De Gournay had grabbed, and dragged me out of prison as his property. Quite an extravagant price for a condemned criminal, if you ask me,” Guy adds in a darkly mocking tone, “though I’d have won much more in that tournament alone. But he had plenty of money and big ambitions back then. He could never pass up an opportunity to kick someone who is down, and the chance to humiliate someone well aware of how far down he’d fallen was too much for him to resist, regardless of the price. Harassing servants is one thing, but breaking the back of what he called _the tournament darling_ was worth a lot more to him.” Marian has to consciously unclench her fists as Guy continues. “I swear, if he could have captured a king, he’d have foregone the ransom just for the pleasure of having a former royal as his enslaved manservant. Except for Richard, who he wanted dead for blocking his advancement as soon as he was crowned.”

“Why did you help him attack the king?” she cannot help asking. The question has been in her mind for months.

“I didn’t think too highly of Richard, especially back then,” Guy admits. “Now I know he’s brave and gracious and all, but don’t forget, between his ransom and his foreign wars, he’s been bleeding the country dry to fund his dreams of glory. And the way I saw it, he was unfit to be king, a bad son who waged war on his own father, together with John, and drove him to an early grave. Sure, I rather wanted it to be an open fight on an equal footing and not a cowardly assassination, but when I suggested that I openly challenge him, knowing his love of jousting, Vasey laughed his head off at my, as he called it, _idealistic idiocy_. But in the end, I didn’t really care one way or another if the attack succeeded.”

“Then why did you go for it again?” she presses him.

He does not answer immediately. “By then I thought it was the only way to be rid of him.”

“Richard?” She is still struggling to understand Guy’s logic when it came to killing the king.

He shakes his head. “Vasey. That way I’d be of no further use to him. I thought if I killed the king, I could either blackmail Vasey so he’d have to leave me alone, or gain favour with John in my own right and become more powerful than Vasey was.” He scowls again. “It was a despicable thing to do in hindsight, I know, but my mind was too clouded with anger to see clearly. All I could think of was, it was the easiest way to finally get Vasey off my back.”

Marian figures there were at least three things wrong with this reasoning, starting with the dubious outcome of any attempt to blackmail Vasey, but she can see how Guy got driven to that point, and deluded himself that regicide was the only way forward. At least he admits to having got it all wrong. And thankfully, the _de facto_ ruler of England does not see him as a traitor or a threat.

“I’m glad you regret it, and doubly glad that Hubert Walter saw through your blunder and thinks highly of you.”

It strikes her belatedly that her first-hand knowledge of Walter’s opinion must be news to Guy, and might be unwelcome news at that; sure enough, he looks up at her with an expression approaching alarm.

“How do you know that?”

She could, of course, come up with some sort of glib explanation, but she is determined not to lie to him.

“Because I went to speak to him after you did, hoping to undo whatever damage you would have done.” She cannot help chuckling at the memory. “But it turned out that he was most impressed by your self-flagellation.”

Her honesty is rewarded by a rather spectacular eyeroll, but he does not comment.

Still, there is something else in Guy’s story that has been nagging her; not because she does not believe it, but because she wants to know more.

“Why did you have to stay with Vasey? I mean, after he brought you to England, couldn’t you just escape?”

He pours himself another goblet; at this rate, if she keeps asking uncomfortable questions, she will end up drinking him under the table. She reaches over to the pitcher and pours one for herself, for good measure.

“At first there was my sister to think of. He took her in too, but seeing how I was in debt to him for two hundred marks, both of us were little different from indentured servants, and if either one of us tried to leave, he’d have us hunted down. It would have been easier to get away on my own, but I couldn’t leave her with Vasey, not with the way he was salivating over her. He liked his lovers young and unwilling… and if the two of us went off together we would be a very easy target. So as long as she was there, I had to stay… I ended up finding a husband for her, there was no way and no time to get to know him well, but he was rich and very taken by her and, no less importantly, wanted to marry her and not just bed her, so I thought I could do worse than agreeing, especially seeing how he was willing to give me a hundred marks for her hand. That’s twice what my own life was apparently worth…” He cannot suppress another scowl as he says it. “…and half of what I owed Vasey, so I was hoping it was a way for both of us to be free sooner rather than later. Of course he turned out to be a cold-blooded bastard.” He grimaces. “And she never forgave me. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Vasey took it out on me after I gave her away in secret, and that she’d been constantly blaming me for tempting fate with courting Adeline, seeing how it had cut short her own life of luxury at my expense.”

_What a selfish little snake_, Marian thinks; and she dreads to think of what Vasey’s retribution must have been like. But it is not Isabella’s fate or Vasey’s cruelty that piques her curiosity.

“Do you know what happened to her?”

Guy looks at her as if she had just asked him if the sun rose in the east.

“Isabella?”

“No, your lady in France.”

A faint shadow of a smile crosses his face; but it is gone in an instant, and he is looking down into his empty goblet when he answers.

“Adeline? She never went back to De Gournay. I heard she tried to look for me, but I was in England, and I… I didn’t want her to know what had become of me. I heard she married someone else about three years later.”

Marian nods; with the way her throat is burning, she does not trust herself to speak.

“Anyway, I kept hoping I’d save enough to fully pay Vasey back,” Guy continues. “But the rat knew it and made a point of not paying me anything for whatever I did for him. He’d feed me and get me clothes and have me staying wherever it was that he was living, but I hardly saw a penny in coin. Instead he’d promise to pay me if I worked as his pet enforcer. I resisted at first, but the temptation to be free of him was too great, I kept thinking it was just another year, then another, and so on. And the way I hated myself, my life, and the world in general made it easy to be a villain to others. I really didn’t care what anyone thought of me, it couldn’t be worse than what I thought of myself. And Vasey made the most of it, telling me I was a worthless outcast every day, even as he refused to let go of me.”

He eyes the wine pitcher again, but apparently thinks better of it. “After a few years of this, he decided to make a decisive grab for power, seeing how King Henry was being besieged by his own children, and at that point he changed tactic. Instead of keeping me there by force and threats, he thought he’d broken my will well enough to make me stay voluntarily… and the worst part was, he wasn’t wrong. He offered me a partnership, of sorts. I’d be his lieutenant, he said, his second-in-command, which of course meant I’d still be doing his dirty work, but I’d be sharing in the rewards and have a chance to get land of my own, and a position of greater power as he advanced, as he thought he would. But he didn’t reckon on Richard, who despised him on sight… and I can’t blame him for that,” Guy adds with a wry grin.

“Still, even with my debt notionally forgiven, I figured I couldn’t just leave. I’d have nothing to my name, and the only honest way I knew to make a living was fighting in tournaments, which had been banned in England since before I was born, and so long as De Gournay was alive – still is, as far as I know – I couldn’t go back to fight in France, seeing how he's de facto running the biggest tournaments there. And without that I’d be a penniless nobody, and I couldn’t face being alone and destitute a second time with no hope for a better life.”

Marian finds herself looking for a way to cheer him up… not an easy proposition considering what he has been telling her. The idea she chances on is something of a mixed blessing, but it is the best she can do.

“Now that tournaments are allowed here again,” she begins cautiously, “and despite the fact that I’d rather not encourage you to keep risking your life, after seeing you in York I think you should do it again, maybe just once, but do it in your own name and show these yokels how it’s really done. You deserve to win as yourself.”

It has worked to some extent, if his raised eyebrow is an indication.

“I like the way it sounds. It would be an honour to do it as your –” But he cuts himself short before he can say _champion_, even as she is about to say that the honour would be hers in nominating him, mourning or no mourning. “Anyway,” he concludes, looking at the window behind her back, as if he just noticed something riveting in the pitch darkness, “I’ll see about it when they announce the next one.”

So much for trying to flirt with him, she thinks sourly. She was beginning to enjoy the idea of being his lady at a tournament. But Guy decides to go back to the rather more detestable subject of Vasey.

“In any case, contrary to all his hopes, all Vasey managed to get under Richard was the Sheriff’s post here. He had no idea of my and Isabella’s childhood here, thank Heaven, but when he told me the news I confess I was secretly pleased to have a chance to settle old scores, as it were, and have a shot at a better life… and look how well it all turned out,” he says with a tight-lipped grin, even though, in Marian’s view, the result has been far from the complete disaster that he believes it to be, no matter what she may have thought a year or two ago. “There’s no way around it, I should have killed him long ago and been done with it… Instead I let him turn me into _this._” He tilts his head back and runs his hands over his face. “I never mistook Vasey for a good man. Don’t get me wrong, I stuck with him for whatever wrong reasons I had convinced myself of, and am fully to blame for that, but my biggest mistake vis-à-vis Vasey was not checking that I’d really killed him… even when I drove the dagger through his heart.”

Marian shakes her head a fraction. “No, your mistake was assuming he _had _a heart to start with,” she counters, and is pleased to see that her dark humour is met with an appreciative, if slight, grin. “I’m glad he is dead,” she continues in a more serious tone, “or I’d be looking kill him myself for both of us. But he’s dead and buried, and all that matters now is that you got through it. You’re stronger than you think, you know.” _And better than I gave you credit for_.

He answers with a faint chuckle. “I’m not so sure about that… I should have stood up to him much sooner, and instead I was just content to quietly sabotage the worst of his vicious schemes.”

“I know you purposely let Robin and others get away more than once,” she admits. The ease with which he managed to regularly escape Vasey’s – and Guy’s – clutches was too obvious to be a matter of pure skill, or pure luck.

He grins, if only slightly. “Couldn’t stand his guts most of the time, especially considering how I was going mad with…” He waves his hand. “But I couldn’t let him get killed either. For one thing,” he adds with a roguish glint in his eye, “I didn’t want to lose such a splendid thorn in Vasey’s side. And then there’s the matter of us having known each other since we were children… I just couldn’t.”

“Even though he was kind of cowardly and selfish as a child.” She probably should not be saying this, but if she is being honest with Guy now, she might as well acknowledge it.

“How do you know that?” He narrows his eyes, clearly none too pleased.

She gives a slight shrug. “Archer.”

Guy rolls his eyes. “The little gossip-monger. Well, I must admit, Marian, your husband back then was a whiny insufferable brat, and he grew up into a self-righteous insufferable brat…” He says it in an almost playful tone, but quickly stops himself, even though she is not remotely offended. “Seriously though, he was a hero.”

“A flawed hero, like all of us,” she counters. _Like you turned out to be._

“It gave me hope, you know, in the end.”

“What?”

“The fact that he grew up to be a bigger man than his younger self would suggest. Made me think perhaps it wasn’t too late for me after all, and made me see that it was up to _me_ to redeem myself. I’d been a fool earlier when I wished to burden _you_ with the task…”

“…And yet if I had anything to do with strengthening your resolve, I am glad,” she counters, hoping for some sign of acknowledgement.

He is quick to oblige, of course, if only out of courtesy. “You had _everything_ to do with it. Well, you and him both.” For some reason, she is not that thrilled to be sharing the credit with Robin. “You know, at the end of the siege I was convinced I was about to die in his arms, he stayed in the tunnel and held me as I lay there thinking it was the end for me. I’m sorry it’s me and not him who made it.”

“What are you talking about?!” This is enough to make her jump up in indignation. “How can you say such a thing?”

There is no way to know what he made of it; but Marian regrets her outburst, no matter how amply provoked, when Guy follows her to his feet, clearly considering their conversation to be over.

“I apologise, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It’s not that – you didn’t – it’s just that I…” Suddenly she has no idea how to explain herself; she is still too shaken up by what he said.

His face and his voice both soften at her embarrassment, but he clearly has no intention of staying.

“It’s late, and I must leave for Nottingham at dawn.” It looks like he would rather leave for Nottingham _right away_. “Do forgive me, I wish you a good night.”

He heads toward the stairs – not even waiting to kiss her hand – and Marian has no choice but to follow him.

“What I meant, Guy,” she blurts out, when he is at the top of the stairs already and she is three or four steps behind him, “is that unlike you, I’m very glad you made it through the siege and survived your wounds. What happened to Robin is a tragedy, but I couldn’t possibly wish I could trade your life for his.”

If only she could have heard herself saying this a year ago… then again, maybe her thinking would not have been all that different, in her heart of hearts.

He steps aside to let her pass at the top of the landing, but he is not looking at her.

“I never dared hope to hear such words from you, not since…” He shakes his head. “Thank you.”

He starts off toward the door of his chamber, and on a reckless impulse, Marian follows him there. He turns around to face her after he has opened the door; they are inches apart, and, Marian thinks, if he invites her in, she will follow him in; to hell with formalities, she is a widow, if only in name, and thus her own mistress, free to decide what she does and who she does it with.

For an instant it looks as if Guy is about to kiss her, _really_ kiss her, and her skin is tingling in anticipation; she takes a half-step toward him and tilts up her face…

…at the precise moment when he takes a step back and turns away from her, sharp profile pale against the dark oak of the door.

“Good night, my lady.”

She struggles so suppress a frustrated groan the moment he has closed his chamber door, leaving her fuming as she stalks off to her own bedchamber for another sleepless night. Guy is getting too good at keeping her awake, and not in the way she would like him to.

.

TBC

.

*****************************

I swear, he is not being a bastard on purpose :P He is only doing what he _thinks_ she wants him to…

Apologies BTW for sticking a footnote into the main text; seeing how I got the admittedly OTT idea of posting a bona fide _table_ here, which footnote formatting does not allow, I did not have much choice. It is the last long note, I promise.

As you see, I could not resist bringing in the classic boxing movie twist, making Guy the unjustly-disgraced former champion making a triumphant return :P Also, it may be pretty obvious from this chapter that I am a _huge_ fan of _Gladiator _😉 And if you happen to have read _The Darkest Hour_, my first-ever fanfic (Guy/Meg, in case you are wondering), you may see some similarities in Guy’s back story with Vasey in that Vasey saved him from a death sentence by buying his life. A bit repetitive, I know, but I like the idea of Guy’s service to Vasey beginning as a form of indentured servitude.

But on to the real subject of this note... the show has no problem twisting real life to its whims; if so, I do the same in tweaking show canon to my needs here, though my adjustments are tiny by comparison. More precisely, I think I am a year or two off canon in my implied estimates of character ages. It is a minor point, but I explain the logic here.

My starting point was Guy’s age at the time of the siege (1194), which I took to be Richard Armitage’s real age at the time of filming the finale (37); hence Guy was born in 1157. IIRC it was established in ep 3x10 (or if not, it was decided by me) that Guy was 16 when his parents died, which puts the events of 3x10 at 1173.

Seeing how Robin there was a good deal younger than Guy, I took his 3x10 age to be eight, meaning that he was born in 1165 and was about 29 at the time of the siege – quite close IIRC to Jonas Armstrong’s age then.

For the purposes of my plot I needed the age difference between Guy and Isabella to be as big as possible, so I took a very conservative assessment of her apparent age in 3x10 and decided she was six, i.e. 10 years Guy’s junior. This means that when she was married to Thornton at 13, Guy was 23 and the whole thing happened in 1180, which, conveniently for me, was a year after the huge tournament in France. This also means that Isabella was only 27 at the siege; kind of young to be Sheriff (medieval patriarchy issues aside), but still a year older than RL William De Ferrers, who got the post at 26.

This means that Archer, who was born shortly before the flashbacks in 3x10, was about 21 at the finale.

Finally, I took Marian to be 25 at the finale, thus 12 years Guy’s junior and four years Robin’s junior; in my plot, she only arrived in Nottingham at 10 years old, i.e. in 1179 when Guy was busy winning the French tournament, six years after his parents died. When they finally met in 1191, she was about 22 and Guy was 34.

And here is the aforementioned table, which tries to make sense of the above 😉

Character

| 

Born

| 

Ep 3x10 (1173)

| 

Guy runs into Vasey (1180)

| 

Vasey & Guy arrive in Nottingham (1191)

| 

Siege / series finale (1194)  
  
---|---|---|---|---|---  
  
Guy

| 

1157

| 

16

| 

23

| 

34

| 

37  
  
Isabella

| 

1167

| 

6

| 

13

| 

24

| 

27  
  
Robin

| 

1165

| 

8

| 

[15]

| 

26

| 

29  
  
Marian

| 

1169

| 

4

| 

[11]

| 

22

| 

25  
  
Archer

| 

1173

| 

0

| 

[7]

| 

[18]

| 

21  
  
By the way, it was kind of to be expected that the show would mess up the Crusades timeline; we see Guy’s father come back from one in ca. 1173, smack in the middle between the 2nd Crusade (1147-1149) and the 3rd Crusade (1189-1192, which they almost got right). Let’s just say there was Crusade #2 ½, Harry Potter-style :P

…I know I should not admit to having favourites, but I confess that these past four chapters were my favourite part of the plot. Needless to say, I am also very fond of the remaining three, but now that I have the crux of the matter dealt with, I will type up the rest at a more leisurely pace. Still, I will have it done and dusted no later than mid-November; my last chapter is dated November 16th in the plot, and I want to post it by that date 😊


	11. Knighton Manor, St Luke’s Day, October 18th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it turns out that proverbial wild horses could not keep me away from writing this. I have the next chapter left to type up now, which I hope to do today. The rest is finished, and I will post the final parts at once and be done with this wonderful madness ☹ 😊

It feels good to be home again.

She looks around the great hall in her new old manor house; much like she remembers it from her childhood, but wider and airier, and better-lit, as she always wished it to be. The pale golden autumn sun floods the wide windows, and the air inside still carries the subtle fragrance of fresh timber, now mixed with the straw-like scent of grain wreaths she hung on the walls and the delicate perfume of late-blooming wild roses she chanced upon in a hedge and brought home for the table centrepiece, as Marian, dressed once more in the elegant gown she wore in York, surveys the three tables set along the sides of the hall as the maids complete the preparations, putting down plates and arranging the food. The _pièce de résistance_, a roast deer, is still turning on a massive spit in the kitchen, to be served once the guests are well into the meal, but the rest of the food, simple but freshly made – an assortment of meat and cabbage pies, homemade cheese, freshly baked bread, and apple pies and honey for dessert – is already on the tables awaiting her guests.

She wished she could have invited everyone whose names had come to mind, but even with the tables arranged to accommodate as many guests as possible, and after borrowing the benches from the village chapel to seat them, Marian could only invite about four dozen, so she had to carefully go over the list to make sure she had not left out anyone she had a particularly close bond with from among the villagers, and had a reasonable number of local squires and landowners who were not known to be at loggerheads with one another. Then there were Sheriff Brewer and his wife as guests of honour – she was not sure if they would come, but she had to invite them – and, of course, Archer. And Guy, though she suspects that the place reserved for him will end up free.

She called it a feast to celebrate the completion of the harvest; but her guests will surely know that this is also, or above all, a housewarming, celebrating her return to the improved replica of her family home. And while very few of the invitees – _two_ of them to be precise, John and his wife –are closely acquainted with the circumstances of why she lost the original manor, she knows that the third informed party, the perpetrator, will most likely disregard her invitation, too mortified by his role as the perverse cause of this feast, regardless of his generous gift that has helped her repay the remainder of her loan to Brewer, furnish the house, and even buy a new carriage, with a couple of dozen marks left to spare. Only some furnishings, curtains and the like, remain to be added; and that is due to her own pickiness in looking for fabrics to please her eye rather than lack of funds.

When she hears carriage wheels cluttering in the driveway, she has a momentary flash of panic, even though she knows that everything is very much ready by now. Still, the thought of entertaining an early, solitary noble guest or pair – for the villagers will walk or, at most, travel in carts – sets her momentarily on edge. Until, that is, she recognises the boxy shape of the Locksley carriage, and her unease immediately gives way to hope that, perhaps, the two brothers have decided to take it instead of riding.

Her hope proves short-lived as she walks into the courtyard and sees Archer alighting from the coach alone. She tells herself that this was to be expected, but still has to force the cheery smile onto her face as she greets her brother-in-law.

“I didn’t know you were so lazy,” she teases him. “Such beautiful, warm, sunny weather for once, and you decide to take the carriage instead of a ride?”

If Archer noticed any hint of disappointment in her features, he does not show it; for his part, he looks relaxed to the point of smugness.

“That’s because I come bearing gifts,” he explains, with a sweeping gesture toward the carriage door. A look inside reveals welcome gifts indeed; Archer has wisely chosen to supplement her admittedly modest supply of drink for the feast by bringing two barrels of French claret and a half dozen kegs of ale; and the grateful kiss she places on his cheek is entirely genuine and well-deserved. She calls over the stable boy, instructing him to take the barrels inside, when she sees what looks like a bale of sackcloth on the carriage seat.

“What’s that?” she asks Archer.

He grins. “Ah, that’s the housewarming gift my dear brother sends you. With apologies, obviously, for being tied up with urgent business and unable to attend.”

She sighs. What is it with Guy, feasts, and _urgent business_, anyway? First the tournament feast in York, now this… of course she knows his real reasons, but it does not make his conduct any less exasperating.

Still, it was nice of him to have sent a gift; but then, a gift of sackcloth is rather… unusual. Peering inside the carriage, she finally sees that the sackcloth is, in fact, a sack covering for whatever is inside.

“What is it?” she asks Archer again.

“A rug,” Archer explains, as he hoists up the bundle in his arms. “Where do you want me to put it?”

She pauses for a moment. “My bedchamber upstairs,” she eventually replies. “To keep out draughts,” she adds with a dirty look at Archer, upon hearing his wolf-whistle.

It turns out that there was a symbolism of sorts to Archer’s reaction, for when he shakes the rug out of the sack in front of her bedchamber fireplace, she sees that it is a rather luxurious wolfskin, or rather, two skins stitched together side by side. But this time there are no notes to covet, French or otherwise.

“Sorry, I tried.” For an instant she is confused by Archer’s remark before it hits her what, and indeed who, he means.

She puts a hand on his arm. “I know, Archer, and thank you. And thank you for the dinner last month, and especially for getting Guy to stay at Locksley.”

He grins, his usual confident grin that she occasionally considers irritating but right now finds endearing.

“Think nothing of it. I want him around too, you know, I’d miss him if he were to go away.”

_You’re telling me_.

“If you’d like, I can arrange another dinner at Locksley in a fortnight or so,” he offers, still grinning. “So you can, you know, take him prisoner and have him at your tender mercy to resolve any pent-up acrimony... and other things.” He winks at her, and Marian cannot help blushing.

“Thank you, Archer, but I figure it may be better to wait until we’re closer to Christmastide,” she ventures. The thing is, they are by now firmly in Acre trip anniversary territory and only two weeks away from the ominous date of All Saints Day when she and Guy had their tragic stand-off in a dusty square, and if Archer were to set up a dinner anywhere near that day, attending it with Guy will be no better – worse, in fact – than being present at a wake. _Her own_ wake, at that.

Thankfully, Archer does not question her words, or inquire about the reasons. “Sure, we can do that.”

“On the subject of gifts,” she continues, stepping over to her bedside chest and opening the lid to retrieve a jewellery box, “I do apologise for not yet having a reciprocal gift for you, but I do have one for your brother and would be most grateful if you’d take it to him on my behalf.” She produces a velvet pouch and spills its contents into her palm for Archer’s benefit, a slender but solid gold chain with a simple cross, substantial without being ostentatious; she asked the goldsmith to make it when she had the cup melted down for money, and wants Guy to have it as a reminder of his victory. She would much prefer to give it to him herself, but she knows that in the next few weeks he will avoid her so steadfastly as to give her no chance of a face-to-face meeting, and she’d rather not have to wait until several months have passed since the tournament.

To his credit, Archer is unruffled by being left without a gift.

“Consider it done.” He slips the chain back in the pouch, and puts it in his jerkin pocket, before grinning at her again. “I must say, though, that for someone sixteen years my senior, my dear brother is one remarkable fool when it comes to you.”

_You don’t know the half of it_.

“Anything else I can help you with?” Archer asks. “Any last-minute errands for the feast?”

“Thank you, but I’m all set. I guess we can just go downstairs and wait for whoever turns up first.”

“Sounds good.”

“And while we’re at it, maybe we can open one of those claret barrels you brought.”

“Sounds even better.”

They get downstairs just in time, for her first guests of the evening are at that very instant walking toward the manor house from their carriage. Squire Draycott, a stocky man of about fifty, is a familiar face, but the pretty, slender, lively-faced young girl is too young to be his wife; and Marian’s doubt is resolved when he introduces her as his eldest daughter Lucy, who has just turned nineteen, and apologises for his wife, who was called away to assist at a childbirth. Marian notices that Archer is immediately taken with the newcomer, and Lucy appears similarly interested; and she is for once glad to do her brother-in-law a god turn in his amorous dealings by keeping Lucy’s father engaged in a profound discussion of the cabbage harvest while the two young things are having their muttered conversation some distance off.

Before long they are joined by John and his wife, and she giggles when her former comrade-in-arms gathers her up in a bear hug; but they have barely had time to exchange a few words when about a dozen villagers arrive in a cart from Nettlestone, then another local squire’s family trundle up in an antiquated carriage, shortly before the villagers from the hamlet near her manor walk over with a gaggle of rowdy children in tow, leaving them to play in the yard as the adults take their seats at the tables, and Marian loses sight of Archer and his fair lady, too busy with the welcomes and thank you’s and taking her guests into the hall just in time to greet another group of new arrivals.

She is surprised, and not unpleasantly so, when Sheriff Brewer makes an appearance with his wife. Lady Beatrice, still beautiful in her middle age, greets her like an old acquaintance, even though they have only met once; and Marian is pleased to see that Her Ladyship’s taste in fabrics is better than her husband’s when she presents Marian with a gift from the two of them, but clearly selected by her, of a length of sumptuous forest green velvet that, Marian figures, will be just perfect for the bed canopy and curtains in her bedchamber.

When it is finally time for her to take her seat at the head of the table, she invites Brewer and his wife to sit next to her as the guests of honour. Squire Draycott takes the opportunity to sit next to Lady Beatrice, though his real aim is undoubtedly to have a few words with Brewer himself; but as Marian looks for Archer to invite him to the seat on her other side, she notices that he is already seated some distance off next to Lucy, who has contrived to take a place away from her father. On the upside, it gives Marian an opportunity to invite Little John and his wife, even though John looks somewhat ill at ease sitting in, relatively speaking, exalted company. Still, as the evening progresses, he looks to be enjoying himself more, not least thanks to the good ale and roasted venison, and Marian’s chat with him and his wife becomes more relaxed.

Until, that is, John surprises her with his next question.

“So, where’s your…? Well, you know, Gisborne, I mean.”

Marian is momentarily self-conscious, not because she does not want John – or anyone else, for that matter – to think that Guy is _her anything_, but because it is less true than she would by now like it to be.

“He’s been busy in Nottingham, I haven’t seen much of him lately.” _Not as much as I’d like to, anyway_, she thinks, hoping that she is not blushing too bright. She probably looks none too pleased as she says this, and it appears that John has noticed; but she does not expect his answer to be as sympathetic as it turns out to be.

“I suppose he’s still heartbroken over what he did in Acre. You know, in the months before you came back, for a while he looked like he’d utterly lost his mind with grief. More than Robin did, I daresay.” John stops rather abruptly; by the look of him, he seems to have realised that he probably should not have said that last part; but of course it is no news to her.

“I know,” she admits. “I heard.”

Thus encouraged, John continues. “You know I used to think the worst of him, but since he and Robin went to York to get Archer out of the dungeon, and especially since the siege, I’ve reckoned he isn’t as bad as I used to believe, more of a man led astray than a real black-hearted villain, and he seems resolved to atone for all that.”

She cannot help smiling. “You know, he gave me the gold trophy he’d won at the tournament at the York Council so I could pay back whatever I still owed for rebuilding the Hall. It was worth nearly half of what I’d borrowed in the first place.”

John shrugs. “Well, for all his dark deeds when he worked for Vasey, one thing’s for sure. Even back then, it was obvious that he’d do anything for _you_.”

“He, wasn’t at all happy to be working for Vasey, either,” she points out. “He told me last time I saw him that his biggest regret about Vasey was that he hadn’t really killed him before.”

John answers with a chuckle. “His and mine both. Good thing that fiend is rotting for real now, but if he’d been dead in March instead of laying the siege, Allan would still be alive, not to mention Robin.”

She sighs. “At least I’m glad Robin’s name won’t be forgotten,” she ventures. “You know, Much wrote to me in his latest letter from Normandy that he’d been promoted captain and given command of a company of archers, and he named it after Robin Hood. He wrote a full page describing how he devised the emblem on the escutcheon.” Seeing John mirror her smile, she goes on. “And last week I got a letter from Will and Djaq, they had a boy in August and called him Robin.”

“Great news indeed.” His face lights up in a broad grin. “And Robin will be remembered long after all of us are gone,” John assures her. “He wasn’t here long, but he made it matter.”

But even as she smiles and nods her agreement, she cannot help thinking that while Robin’s name, and the legend, lives on, the heady times of their Sherwood exploits are well and truly over.

***

Brewer and Beatrice are the first to leave, as befits guests of honour; objectively speaking, they also have the longest road to travel back to Nottingham compared to the other guests.

Marian walks with them to their carriage, and they are going through the polite farewells and repeated expressions of mutual gratitude when Lady Beatrice puts a gentle hand on her arm.

“By the way, my dear, if you happen to be considering your options for Christmas, you are than welcome to join Sir William and myself at our apartments in the castle. We shall be moving there in about a month, and not a day too soon if you ask me. Of course we shall hold a feast to officially celebrate the completion of the castle at around Shrove Tuesday, but for now we are planning a small gathering at Christmas. Just our children and other family, mostly, so it might get a touch boring, but consider this a standing invitation.” Her husband next to her nods and mutters “yes, yes, of course.”

“I am very grateful to both of you.” Marian does not need to feign it. “And I shall gladly consider it.” She cannot yet commit to it – who knows what may happen in two months – but it is good to have an option, especially in Nottingham.

***

If Brewer and his wife were the first to leave, Archer was, just as unsurprisingly, the last. Especially considering that he spent the remainder of the evening glued to Lucy’s side, both during the feast and when the dancing started. Marian was surprised to notice his usual smug bravado notably missing, he actually looked genuinely infatuated, and it looked like his affections were being reciprocated. She was happy to see it, but would have to admit that the sight of a happy couple made her wistful.

It is long after dark, and some time after Draycott and his daughter follow the last of the villagers out of the yard, that Archer ambles to his carriage.

“Thank you for the wonderful party, Marian.” He makes a show of kissing her hand. “I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

“I noticed.” She wonders if he can see her wry smile in the moonlight. “Good luck with courting your new lover.”

It could be a trick of the light, but he seems faintly bashful. “Ah, thank you. And good luck to you with courting your old one. I shall see you soon, I trust.”

“You can count on it.” Whether or not Guy chooses to join them, at least she and Archer can get drunk together over troublesome affairs of the heart.

Archer is settling down inside the carriage; he pokes his head out for his final remark, and seems to have a more upbeat view of the situation.

“I look forward to becoming your brother-in-law a second time, Marian,” he quips.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake shut up,” she scoffs in mock indignation.

_If only it were this easy_.

***

When the maids have finished cleaning up, she walks up to her bedchamber, but instead of going to bed, she lights a fire and sits down on the rug in front of the fireplace; her hands distractedly stroke the luxuriant fur, and before long she is lying down on it, watching the flames and hopelessly lost in daydreaming, imagining what it might be like if Guy were lying there next to her.

Her experience with Robin in that regard has not been extensive, let alone exhaustive; but even with what she does know, it is a deliciously sinful notion; she imagines them lying there undressed and with their hands and lips all over each other’s bodies, and ends up shivering with excitement. It is not made any better by the fact that she _has_, for all practical purposes, seen him naked; granted, he was near death at the time, in pain and in peril, and lascivious thoughts could not have been further from her mind; but now that she recalls the images, she cannot help thinking that to have him like that now, _at her tender mercy _as Archer says, would be supremely thrilling. _Good luck with courting your old lover_, Archer said; they were never really lovers, but she will need all the luck she can get to change that now.

Well, if he does not play along, she may have to resort to more decisive measures; and as she finally gets into bed, she is playing with fantasies of scrounging up a version of her old Nightwatchman costume and going to Nottingham to pay a visit to Guy so she can, as-Archer puts it, _take him prisoner_.

.

TBC

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marian’s musings about, er, _visiting_ Guy as the sexy!Nightwatchman were prompted by a memory of a wonderful sexy fic from way back. It took some poking around the graveyard of Livejournal, but I found it (I hope the author does not mind, but the post is public): https://lady-t-220.livejournal.com/2127306.html


	12. Ripley Convent, St Martin’s Day, November 11th

She never thought that life in a convent could be so pleasant.

She hoped the peace and quiet would help her calm down, and was not disappointed in her decision. Ripley Convent, nestled in a forest clearing between Chesterfield and Sheffield but further west toward the hills, is even more tranquil than Knighton or Locksley; and the tranquillity of its location is matched only by the lull of the measured, structured daily routine observed by the nuns. It does not fully apply to her as a visitor, as she only attends prayer when she decides to, once or twice a day, and helps with chores of her choosing when she feels like it; the rest of her time is spent in pacing the cloister or in solitary reflection in her guest cell, admittedly more comfortably furnished than those occupied by the nuns; but this is the opposite of exciting, and for once she is glad of it.

Still, after a fortnight she gets restless. It is not helped by the weather that is rendering her present abode desolate rather than merely peaceful. The days keep getting shorter, the nights are drawing in, and the leaves have turned golden, then ruddy, then flurried down to carpet the ground under leaden skies, and winter chill is already in the air on the gloomy mornings, seeping through the barren stone walls; and as the comfort of her own home beckons, Marian takes the opportunity of an encounter with the Mother Superior to thank her for the kindness and hospitality and inform the latter that she intends to return to her manor five days hence.

Oddly, though, she is not looking forward to spending Christmastide at home. Last Christmas she was convalescing in Acre in Djaq’s family house with Djaq and Will for company, preparing to leave for England where she thought Robin would be ecstatic to see her. Two years ago she spent Christmas with her father in the old manor, with Robin away at the crusades, and she and Guy were not even betrothed yet, though she recalls him sending her a gift. Now she will be alone. She could invite herself to Locksley, sure Archer will welcome her, but Guy will likely find a pretext to stay in Nottingham; there is no way he forgot what happened between them on All Saints Day last year, and seeing his present attitude, he will probably stay away from her all the way to Lent. Maybe she will ask John to join him and his family. Or maybe should take up Brewer’s invitation to spend Christmas with him and Lady Beatrice in the new castle. Maybe it is not a bad idea. But of course if she does that, Guy _will_ go to Locksley.

Little did she know, back in Acre, that the reason she would need a tranquil retreat on the anniversary of her near death would not be to come to terms with what had transpired, but to assuage her frustration over being unable to bed her would-be killer afterwards. It has become a strange routine; every time she takes a step toward him, he takes a step back.

What a difference a year makes.

It feels rather like ten years have passed since their perilous trip to the Holy Land, and since their ill-fated confrontation. What is it with All Saints Day in his life, anyway? Fifteen years ago on that day he won his crowning achievement in France, only to be thrown into the depths of despair exactly a year later; and thirteen years on, a year ago, he lost his mind and nearly killed her, not to mention King Richard. Maybe instead of staying at Ripley on this fraught anniversary, she should have gone to Nottingham to make sure he stayed out of trouble, she wonders. As she now prays for Robin and Guy both, their names joined together in her devotions, she can no longer deny that she is utterly in love with Guy, impossible as it might have seemed a year ago. And is it really wrong to love him, she asks herself; and does she even care anymore if it is wrong? The way she sees it, there must have been a reason why they both cheated death; and being in love is as good a reason as any.

For one thing, she tells herself, Guy has changed; it does not negate the fact that she had too little faith in him before, but he is a different man now, having dedicated all his efforts to reforming himself. And yet this loyal, honourable, chivalrous, even selfless man was always there lurking behind the wrathful demeanour and the forbidding air; he needed a chance to be set free of Vasey’s shackles and let go of the old anger to regain what was, underneath it all, his true self. Then again, ever since he and Archer had told her about his life before they had met, she realised she had hardly known the real Guy of Gisborne. He had never chosen to tell her, true; but neither had she cared to ask.

And it is not even as if what they had before was all that bad, to say nothing of the fact that _she _was largely responsible for ruining it. Sure, Guy almost killing her was a really low point, but does a moment of madness outweigh everything else? It looks like in _his_ mind it does; he has been his own most severe judge for that crime ever since… but she, the would-be victim, is less certain now. Not to mention that Guy was happy to die for her at least once, or rather twice if she counts his confession to Walter, and repeatedly risked his wellbeing and position to keep her out of trouble, which she repeatedly took for granted as she conspired with Robin. All the while she treated him as a nuisance, a convenient prop to pull toward her or push away depending on the demands of the greater good, rather than a living being with a beating heart, no matter how flawed, and she only appealed to his better instincts when it suited her to take advantage of him. And yet she constantly judged him for his choices, ignorant of the misfortunes that had brought him to this juncture, as if she herself were perfect and infallible. If she is willing to admit that the people around her are not black and white, Marian also has to admit that she herself is as grey as anyone, as it were.

It does not change the fact that she did and will, in a way, always love Robin; but Robin was not perfect either, and would not have made the best husband if she is to be brutally honest, too restless, impetuous and with a promiscuous streak a mile wide. And yet by moving on after her presumed death, Robin gave her a lesson and an example, both by considering other lovers and by reconciling with his former nemesis. This way she too can move on, and she knows what, or rather _who_, she wants; she just needs to wait for the right moment to take her chance. As Marian gets ready to leave Ripley five days later, she resolves to stop by at Robin’s grave on her way back. She has not been there in a while, and she ought to thank him for what they had, and for setting her free.

***

This time, the place looks and feels more like a gravesite.

The forest is quiet and still now, its usual life having seemingly seeped away. The day is chilly under grey November skies, and the only sound is the crackling of dry branches under her feet as she alights from her carriage and walks to the simple gravestone. The trees are almost bare, and there is an eerie mist enveloping the shrubs and the undergrowth.

As she steps away from the headstone and heads back to the carriage, she thinks she saw and heard something move, a shadow darting through the shrubbery, but cannot discern any shapes, human or otherwise, in the mist, and does not give it much thought until it is too late.

The attackers pounce the moment she is back inside the carriage, before she tells her coachman to drive off. Marian is wearing a simple dark cloak and gown, befitting someone who has been staying at a convent, albeit as a visitor, but she has been tempting fate riding through the forest in the impressive-looking new carriage that she bought with the remainder of the gold from Guy’s gift after she had repaid the loan balance, so that she would no longer need to keep borrowing Archer’s old coach. This was in fact her first opportunity to use it; Ripley, almost forty miles away on winding forest roads, was too far to ride to, and the weather was rainy and chilly when she set out from Knighton three days before All Saints Day.

There are five of them, she figures out when she glances out the carriage window at the unexpected commotion, before it belatedly occurs to her to get out; they look to be a gang that replaced Robin’s band of outlaws, but unlike their predecessors, they clearly have no qualms attacking a woman, and neither know nor care who she is. The bigger three immediately busy themselves with grabbing the horses’ reins and overpowering the coachman, and as she prepares to step outside, the fourth one beats her to it, squeezing in and blocking her way with a vicious-looking long knife. She did not get a chance to see where the fifth man went, but hears noise from the back of the carriage where the chest with her belongings is strapped, and understands that he must have gone to rummage through it. She is pitifully outnumbered, armed only with her hairpin dagger, out of practice with her fighting, and trapped in the carriage, helpless and furious.

The robber in front of her peers at her with small, sharp eyes in a ferret-like face, before addressing her in a nauseatingly smarmy voice.

“Now if you’ll jus’ be a good girl and give me everything you’ve got, I may jus’ decide not to harm you.”

“I have no valuables on me,” she replies, summoning all her confidence. It is true; she had brought a donation to Ripley but now has only a change of clothes in her belongings. The only object of great, albeit subjective, value is the French note Guy sent her with the trophy, which she likes to carry with her, now tucked into a hidden pocket in her cloak. But her attacker does not look convinced.

She realises, all too late, that the fifth robber has finished searching her things when his hands close around her neck; he snuck up to the carriage window to pin her in place.

His companion’s sickening grin grows wider as he leers at her.

“What if I were to check for myself?” He grabs the front of her dress and points the knife up from her waist to cut it open.

What a stupid way to end it all, she thinks distantly.

Her first clue that fate has sent someone to save her is when the hands strangling her throat go slack, and she hears the attacker sag to the ground with a raspy groan. Seizing the opportunity, she instantly reaches up to pull out her hairpin dagger and stabs the robber in front of her; he yowls and doubles over, clutching at his stomach; and she leaps out of the carriage.

She is stunned, and yet in a way completely unsurprised, when she recognises Guy’s horse and sees him, now dismounted, tackling the remaining two robbers; a third one is already lying unconscious. At first he does not notice her, his attention occupied by grabbing one of the men in a chokehold before delivering a vicious blow to his face to crush his nose. When he sees her, he is so shocked for an instant, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, that it falls to her to knock out the last robber with a well-placed kick to the temple.

As soon as her target sags unconscious to the ground, she steps – more like runs, really – to Guy’s side, hoping he will not mind if she kisses him; but by then he is busy undoing his horse’s tack to detach the reins, presumably to tie up the attackers, and does not pay close attention to her; when he does, he looks too preoccupied to bother with greeting pleasantries let alone kisses, and she pauses in her tracks.

“You all right?” He sounds appallingly businesslike, even stern.

She does her best not to show how disheartened she is by his attitude. “Yeah, you?”

“Fine. Could I possibly ask you to help me with these?” He points to the loose reins he is now holding up. She might be imagining it, but he looks to be moving somewhat stiffly. “We’d better tie these rascals up before they’re at it again.”

Considering the shape their attackers are in, it is highly unlikely that they will be at it anytime soon, with three of them unconscious and two wounded and moaning; but it will not hurt to be cautious. She waits while Guy knocks out the two still-conscious men before picking all five clean of their weapons, and the two of them then drag the bodies inside her carriage and do their best to tie them all up with Guy’s horse’s reins in an awkward tangle, facing each other with the reins tight around their necks and their hands tied firmly behind them, so they will not be able to extricate themselves for the duration of their journey. After some cajoling from Marian and some veiled threats from Guy, the two of them manage to persuade her coachman to take her carriage to Nottingham to deposit the bandits in Sheriff Brewer’s hands.

As soon as the coachman has departed with his questionable cargo, Guy turns to her.

“I swear, Marian, I wasn’t spying on you. I just chanced to be here on my way to the grave…” She gives an involuntary start before she realises the grave he meant is not his own, as he continues. “I didn’t even know it was you until you got out of the carriage.”

Unlike Guy, it seems, she is rather grateful for the fortunate timing that brought him here, and is not even sure how much she would mind if he _had _been watching her; but he continues before she can say so.

“I ride here from time to time to… make sure it’s all in order,” he says, a transparent excuse if there ever was one, considering that the grave is just a boulder and a cross. He must have figured it too, for he decides to admit the truth. “I know it sounds incredible, but now it seems silly that we were enemies all that time. I kind of miss him.”

She just squeezes his arm for an answer, remembering that talking about Robin can be a tricky issue with him for completely different reasons than before. As a way to change the subject, she turns to a matter that has been nagging at her since the beginning of her present misadventure, namely, her own relatively modest performance, considering her militant past.

“I must apologise for not being a lot of help,” she begins, “I was rather out of practice.”

“What are you talking about?” he scoffs. “You were at a disadvantage inside the carriage, and you still took out two men. Besides, you’re forgetting I was better equipped,” he counters, pointing to the sword. “Not to mention, on horseback.”

She can see all that, but she is still embarrassed, and tries to be light-hearted about it, no matter how awkwardly.

“I don’t know… maybe you could help me with a bit of fighting practice…”

“No!” He snaps, as if she had just suggested something truly heinous; he does not merely look shocked, but genuinely terrified.

It strikes her then how much she has upset him with her flippant remark. “I – I didn’t mean to…”

Presently he recovers his composure sufficiently to answer. “I’m always at your service if you need a bodyguard...”

_I’d rather you offered to be more than that to me_.

“…and if you want to fight me, as practice or otherwise, feel free,” he goes on, “but I won’t fight back.”

She shakes her head. The only kind of fight she would have with him on those terms would probably involve pillows. At most, food.

“You can kill me if you –”

Before he can say _want_, or _wish_, or whatever it is that he was about to utter, she is right in his face, grabbing the front of his jerkin with both hands.

“Don’t you dare talk like that.” She is practically growling. “It’s the last thing I want, and if you haven’t figured it out by now, you really are a fool.”

She could be mistaken; she is too agitated to pay close attention, but it looks to her like he is blushing. She takes a step away and turns away from him, only to hear him say behind her back, quietly but in a mercifully lighter tone: “Besides, I’ve had plenty of practice already. I’ve been fighting all my life.”

She turns back to look at him, and tries to smile. “Yes, I know.”

He turns to look for his charger when she notices him wince and sees the shiny bloodstain seeping down onto his thigh from under the hem of his jerkin; and she understands the reason for his slightly stilted movements since after the fight.

“You’re hurt.” She closes the distance between them once again.

“It’s nothing.” He dismisses it with a wave of his hand.

She does not need to feign her outrage. “Nothing?!”

“It’s just a shallow cut,” he insists. “I’ve had a lot worse. I am not made of glass.”

“You are not made of steel, either,” she parries. “You’re bleeding.”

“A scratch,” he maintains. “I’ll have it stitched when I get to Nottingham.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind. You’re coming with me to Knighton and I’m going to stitch it for you right there. I’ve had plenty of practice doing _that_,” she adds wryly.

“Yeah, I’d imagine.” He tries to hide the smirk, without much success.

She walks over to her travelling chest; the robber broke open the lock, but luckily, the hinges are still intact and can be closed for now by simply tying them together with a length of string. She reaches inside to pull out a linen undershirt, cuts a strip of fabric from its hem, folds it up, and hands it to Guy.

“Press it against the wound, it will stem the bleeding for now.” He has the good sense to do as he is told.

He whistles to the charger, and the horse comes trotting gracefully up to him; there is little left to do but get out of the forest, but first they have to negotiate the riding arrangements. Marian is pondering whether she would prefer to be in the front or back of the saddle, but it is soon becomes clear that Guy has very different ideas.

“I suppose it’s best if you ride him,” he offers, tilting his head toward the horse. “I can walk alongside…”

He seems determined to infuriate her.

“If you insist on walking, so shall I,” she scoffs. “At this rate maybe we’ll get to Knighton in a day or two. If you haven’t bled to death by then.” She turns to fully face him, arms akimbo. “You’re getting up into that saddle this very instant, or I swear I’ll walk off with or without you.”

Amazingly, this does the trick.

Once both of them are astride the horse, with Marian seated behind him, she thinks that she should probably be kinder to him, considering his condition and to say nothing of the fact that he has just saved her life, or at least her virtue; and perhaps a little flattery won’t hurt, even if it is not directed at him immediately. “Did I tell you that you have a really beautiful horse?”

He chuckles.

“He sure is, and I was lucky to have won him.”

This is news to her; and confusing news at that. She has seen Guy riding the same charger in the tournament; so how could he have won the horse?

“Won him?”

“I made a bet,” Guy explains, “with the stable owner who lent him to me. He agreed to give him away if I won the joust. He was certain that some Frenchman wouldn’t stand a chance against De Ferrers. You should have seen his eyes when I showed up there with the Sheriff’s lieutenant who told him that I was indeed the winner.”

She laughs. “If you ask me, he was duly punished for his lack of faith.”

They start off toward Knighton; he rides with one hand on the horse’s withers to direct him in the absence of reins, and the other resting on his sword hilt; and she leans against his broad back, wraps her arms around his waist, and slips one hand over his hip to keep the makeshift bandage in place; and the bleeding wound is the only thing that stops her from hugging him tighter.

.

TBC

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was rather _Guy ex machina,_ but by now it was pretty obvious where they were headed, and yet if he did not show up here, they’d still be circling each other come next Easter :P


	13. Knighton Manor, St Margaret’s Day, November 16th

“C’est magnifique.”

She gets the gist, but Guy proceeds to translate his own comment for her benefit. “It’s magnificent.”

Their journey has brought then into the courtyard of the new Knighton Hall; and Marian herself must admit that it looks none too shabby, and, to be honest, better than the original.

“It’s half yours, you know,” she says as she takes his hand to dismount. She is grinning, but her reply isn’t really in jest. He chuckles, but makes no move to follow her off his charger.

“Of course it isn’t.” Even though he is strictly speaking correct, she is somehow saddened to hear it.

“Are you getting off or not?” she prompts him. “Or do you intend to ride into the hall?”

He looks obviously uncomfortable, to her growing annoyance.

“I think I’d better go on to Nottingham,” he begins, “so long as you’re not planning to venture out again –”

If he is hoping to wriggle out of this by trying to be funny, it is a miserable failure.

“_I_ think you’d better get off the horse this very instant, and let me dress that wound.”

He scowls, but does as he is told; rather gingerly, she notes.

“There really is no need, it isn’t bothering me in the slightest.” Once standing, he straightens up to reinforce the point, and immediately betrays his blatant lie by wincing.

“You’re really determined to bleed to death, aren’t you?” She does not even try to hide her exasperation.

He shrugs. “It’s not like I wouldn’t deserve to.”

Not _that _again.

“Well, I don’t care what you think you deserve or don’t deserve. What I know is, I didn’t nurse you back to life only to watch you keep trying to get killed or hurt.” Without further ceremony, she puts her hand firmly on his arm and pulls him into the hallway. “You’re coming in, and I shall have no more argument on this matter.” She has figured out that arguing with him is an uphill battle, but curiously, she has also noticed that when she _orders_ him, he obeys.

Doing her best to keep the initiative, she proceeds to lead him upstairs. There is a guest bedroom, but the bed is not yet there; and if Marian is to be honest with herself, she is very pleased with this state of affairs right now as the opens the door to her own bedchamber and gestures her visitor inside.

His eyes widen as he realises their destination, but he says nothing.

“Do sit down before you end up fainting,” she mutters, doing her best to ignore the answering eyeroll.

He is looking for a chair, which for the moment is concealed from his view behind her back; his gaze lingers instead on the wolfskin rug in front of the fireplace. When, after tossing in some wood and rekindling the fire, she directs him to her bed instead, he is momentarily staggered.

He laughs, a bit nervously. “Surely I can just sit –” he begins, pointing to the chair she is presently pulling up alongside.

“No, that’s for me,” she says, as sternly as she can manage in spite of her growing amusement. When he finally sits down on the bed, she thinks it is safe to go fetch supplies, but not before a parting admonition.

“You must promise me to stay right here, or else I’ll have no choice but to tie you to the bedposts.”

He laughs again, and this time it sounds genuine. “What is it with everyone wanting to tie me to trees and beds and stuff?”

Her eyebrows ride up of their own accord. _Everyone_?

“Everyone as in me and who else?” she inquires pointedly, but seeing how he is in no hurry to indulge her curiosity, she figures that it will have to wait. “I’ll be right back.”

She quickly fetches two clean rags, a flagon of eau-de-vie left over from the feast, and a threaded needle from the pantry, and pops into the kitchen to pour a bowl of water before carrying these upstairs. Guy is still sitting on the bed as if it were made of thorns, and setting her hoard down on the bedside chest, she piles up the cushions next to him and does her best to assume a severe expression.

“Take off your shirt and lie down.”

“Do I have to?” For once, he sounds as plaintive as Robin would; except that Robin would have _begged_ to be treated like this.

She pulls up the water bowl, dips one of the rags in it, and holds it up as if it were a weapon. Her meaning is not lost on him, and with a dramatic sigh, he obeys her commands; she is secretly delighted to see a glint of gold when he shrugs the shirt off, presently revealed to be the chain she sent him, but chooses not to comment.

She is relieved to see that his latest wound is, in fact, a shallow cut; luckily for Guy, the robber could not reach high enough on foot to do much damage when Guy was presumably still on horseback, and so the attacker was only able to reach a couple of inches above his hip bone. She mops off the blood and then dries the wound with the remaining rag, but before stitching it up, she takes a moment to check his sword wound from the siege; she is pleased to see that it is healing quite nicely, and thus confused when Guy shivers as she runs her fingers lightly over it; surely he cannot be in pain from her touch.

She then proceeds to stitch the fresh cut, but her hands are trembling so much that she has to be slow and careful to avoid poking him excessively with the needle. As always, Guy pretends to be completely unaffected, or at least tries to; for some reason he lies back on the pillows with his eyes closed and his face strangely tense. She does not recall him being this squeamish; needless to say, Robin would have done his utmost to flirt with her throughout, with comments on everything from her seamstress skills to the view he would be getting of her cleavage as she accomplished the task, which Guy decided to forgo.

Once Marian is done, she pulls the hairpin dagger out again, sending her hair tumbling down, to cut the thread, and reaches over for the flagon.

“I have to pour this on the cut, to make sure it doesn’t get infected,” she tells Guy; not exactly a pleasant sensation to experience, she recalls, but a necessary precaution.

Guy calmly nods his acknowledgement, but she sees him wince when the alcohol trickles onto the cut; as usual, he does not make a sound, but she knows that this burns a good deal, and seeking to soothe the sting, she quickly presses her lips to the edges of the cut.

It is a reflexive, habitual gesture, one that has become a regular conclusion to all her minor surgery sessions with Robin, and she does not give it a second thought when she does it this time; forgetting for an instant that she is dealing with a very different patient.

Guy grabs her wrist, then abruptly lets go of it; his hand is trembling every bit as much as hers did a short while ago, and his eyes flash open as he sits up.

“This is more than I can bear,” he mutters, and before she can ask him what he means, he goes on in a more resolute tone.

“I must be leaving, really. Please stay safe, my…” He breaks off; another moment, and he will be off the bed and out of the chamber.

“What’s wrong?” She finds it difficult to breathe, let alone speak.

He shakes his head, not looking at her.

“You said it, Marian, it’s all over and in the past between us… and as I said to you then, I’m in no danger of ever forgetting that.”

She is baffled; she cannot even remember when she said it at first, before she realises it was back in May, when, needless to say, she meant it differently than it obviously sounded. And she did not even hear the remainder of his reply to her back then, as she interrupted him thinking he meant to reassure her that he was _in no danger_ health-wise; now she is reminded of how seriously, and how erroneously, he took her words.

“That’s not what I meant!” It comes out loud and shrill. “I meant the Acre part was in the past, I wasn’t talking about everything else…” She sags in the chair with a dejected sigh.

His eyes go very wide; for a moment or two he sits silent and still, looking straight ahead as if getting ready to jump off a cliff; and she is both terrified and eager to hear what he will say next. One way or another, he has resolved to have it out with her, and she can only hope that he is not about to tell her it _is_ all in the past for _him_; when he finally speaks, it feels like her heart is beating frantically right in her mouth.

“I – can’t go on like this. I know I have no right to claim your affection, but I can’t help craving it. I’ll never stop loving you. My wretched heart will never stop aching at the sight of you. I’ll never stop longing to see you, hear you… touch and be touched by you. But I’ll never be able to call you my beloved, let alone my betrothed, not after what I’ve done. You told me so yourself in Acre, you said you’d rather die than be with me, and I abide by that. I can never hope to have you, yet I’ll never be able to let go of you. I’d do anything just to be your humble servant, but I know it is the last thing you want. I wish I’d die now, in this blissful moment, rather than live the rest of my life losing you every day. But I can’t… pretend to be… just an old acquaintance, a rusty fixture to remind you of better times while you wait to pick your next husband. Let me go, Marian. I know you still love Robin, and I know I lost all rights to your heart a year ago… not that I ever had it.”

He says that last part in a half-whisper and shakes his head again as he utters it, looking down, sending strands of hair cascading over his face; just as well, perhaps, as this way he might not notice her tremendous sigh of relief. Then again, if he did, so be it.

_I’d rather die than be with you, Guy of Gisborne_. Her very words, indeed. The angels must be laughing.

All this time, as she was chasing him, her own rash avowal long forgotten, he was guided by it instead.

She blinks away the unbidden tears, and looks back at him.

“You have it now, and you shall have it for as long as I live.”

He looks up at her sharply through the long fringe, and she takes his hand in both of hers for greater emphasis.

“It’s the truth, Guy, I told you I’m done with lying, to you, to myself. I love you. I can’t explain it, I just know it with all my heart. I… what I said in Acre was… it wasn’t really true even then, I was just so very angry with you, you know how it can be. It was true that I loved Robin, and a part of me will always love him, but I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life in mourning for him. He wasn’t going to do it for me, and neither shall I... and I’m not the same woman anymore. Things change. _People_ change. We’re both different people… better people now, I think, than we were a year ago. I’m not happy about… things you’ve done in recent years, but it didn’t define who you were then, and certainly doesn’t define who you are now. I was unfair to you on many counts, and we’ve both hurt each other, and you really lost your mind in Acre for a moment, but I think we both paid for our mistakes and deserve a second chance. I don’t want to let you go, Guy, I want you here, with me, in my life, in this house, in this bed, damn it… Please stay. Please…” Her voice breaks.

He regards her with the same enraptured stare he gave her when he first came to his senses on Easter Saturday, as if she were a divine vision; it feels as if time has stopped.

She tentatively reaches to brush the locks of hair away from his face, and he turns into her hand to kiss her open palm. Finally, it seems, she has his permission and his acceptance; she leans over to kiss him, trying to stay clear of his newly wounded side, and he pulls her up on the bed, next to him. She distantly thinks he should be more careful of the wound she’d just stitched up, but is too carried away and lands in his arms, on top of him on the piled-up pillows.

This is nothing like what she experienced before in her twenty-five years; not with Robin, not with Guy, not with anyone. He pulls her close and she presses herself against him, as if trying to meld their bodies together; she cannot get enough and moans with impatience and claws at his back so hard as to leave scratch marks, as his hot skin flush against the silk of her dress sends tendrils of fire through her veins. Then his hands are cupping her face and hers are tangled in his hair, and their lips are still locked together before his tongue slips into her mouth, exploring, stroking, teasing, caressing; and before long she is trembling and breathless and begging for more and, for the first time in a year, she feels truly alive again.

.

_to be concluded_

_._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …and then they <strike>screwed each other’s brains out</strike> lived happily ever after, but now that they are finally literally in bed together, I leave it to dear readers to visualise the rest. Please forgive me; it was rated T for a reason ☹ …and while the plot has evolved a lot since early March 2010, I had this final scene almost unchanged in the draft since then (the only difference is that back then, they were supposed to kiss in the Knighton Hall doorway; at least now I brought Guy into Marian’s bed and got him to take his shirt off 😉 ).  
I have very graphic mental images of what they did next, but cannot bring myself to type it; as I keep saying, I tend to prefer watching, or at least reading, porn to writing it. My other selfish reason is that I stop thinking about stuff once I type it up, and I’d rather keep these two romping in my head a while longer. All I can do is direct you to the last chapter of _Ransom_, my other Guy/Marian longfic, for a substitute sex scene involving the same characters in a similar set-up.


	14. Epilogue: Knighton Manor, a few days before Christmas 1194

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn’t help it.
> 
> Warning for the fluff quotient.

“You awake?”

When she does not get an immediate answer, she turns to look at her second husband. It is in fact quite likely that he has drifted off to sleep, considering that they were awake most of the night, but to her surprise, she sees him apparently transfixed by the bed canopy, or at any rate deeply distracted.

“Guy?”

He finally turns to look at her.

“What’s the matter?” she prompts.

He gives her an all-too-innocent stare that nonetheless fails to deceive her. Archer is clearly a bad influence on his elder brother, but she has not spent years lying for nothing; she can spot a shifty look from a mile away.

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing, Guy,” she warns. “We may have only been married for two weeks, but I’ve now known you for three years.” She would have insisted on having the wedding sooner still so as to get Guy to officially move into Knighton Hall at the earliest opportunity, but even with a minimum of hasty preparations, it ended up being St Nicholas’ Day, three weeks after their dramatic meeting in the forest. “What is it?”

“I was thinking of attending some… entertainment… near Tickhill a week after Christmas, and I was just mulling over the details…”

“They’ve announced a tournament there.” He may not know it, but she has already memorised the six designated locations that King Richard proclaimed as the licensed tournament grounds in England, just to be better able to discern the purpose of any future trips Guy may decide to embark on; and Tickhill is one of those.

He gives up quite easily this time. “Yes. And of course I’d be happy if you’d accompany me there. Assuming you’d want to.”

_Assuming you’d want to_, indeed. “I’m your wife, Guy. _Of course_ I want to. If you think I’m letting you run loose to fight in another lady’s name –”

He cuts her short. “You know I’d never do _that_.”

She knows, but her memory of the York feast is still quite fresh in her mind. Even if Guy does not care about other women, she would not want the likes of Philippa de Beaumont to fawn over him in her absence. Especially considering the likelihood of him winning this thing.

“Anyway, I’m going with you. Could I ask you to promise me something though?” She knows it is a long shot, but she has to try.

“What?” He has learned to be cautious already; a week ago he would have just answered _anything _and had to deal with the consequences.

“That you’ll call it a day after this one?”

He flips his head emphatically back and forth on the pillow. “No way.”

She knew it. She grabs her own pillow and smacks him across the face; the next instant though, he has snatched it from her hand and is holding it up beyond her reach, and she has to prop herself up on one elbow to continue the conversation, if it be so called.

“So you’ll be willing to let me worry myself sick to satisfy your vanity,” she tries in her most reproachful tone.

“_Chérie_, I swear you have nothing to worry about,” he drawls, dropping the pillow on the far side of the mattress.

“I’m not doubting your skill.” She knows that _I’m not as bad as you may think_ was a major understatement, and knows by now that it does not only apply to jousting. “I just hate to think that anything might happen to you by some stupid accident.”

“Marian, you’re overthinking things.” He sounds stern, but immediately undermines it by reaching for her hand and kissing her fingertips. “It’ll be fine. Besides,” he looks sideways at her, “I still owe you three hundred marks and I need a way to get that money.”

This is news to her. “Three hundred marks for what?”

“The house.”

She gives him a blank stare.

“You had to borrow five hundred from the treasury to rebuild it,” he explains. “The cup I got in York was worth about two. That leaves three that I need to pay you back.”

She does not know whether to laugh or be angry, and sort of goes for both, struggling to stifle her chuckles while keeping a severe face.

“The house is yours, Guy,” she says finally, once she is more composed. “It was my dowry, as you know. Which part of that do you fail to recall?”

She has been forgetting that she has married the most obstinate creature alive, and is promptly reminded of it.

“I recall the part where I burned it down.”

She huffs. “Well, then you’ll be paying _yourself_ back for it…” she starts, and wonders if she can pull his own pillow from under his head to hit him with it, but presently she gets a better idea.

She props herself up on both elbows and tilts her head toward him. “Very well, we can agree that you shall be in my debt for three hundred marks, on one condition.” He turns to look up at her, intrigued. “You can’t pay it back out of tournament winnings. That would be too easy, and not punish you enough. Instead, though I consider every moment we spend together to be priceless, I shall forgive you a fraction of your debt for each time you bed me. Let’s say each time is worth 10 marks…”

She cannot immediately grasp why he looks vaguely disappointed until he speaks in a rather plaintive tone.

“What, thirty times in total?”

The enormity of her error hits her then.

“No, no, no, no, wait!” She grabs his wrist. “One mark… No!!” She sits up. “One _penny_, and then when we’re up to three hundred marks’ worth, then your debt will be paid…” She eyes him sideways with a cunning grin. “Of course there’s also the accumulated interest to consider, but we’ll get to that later. What do you say, do we have a deal?”

He pulls her back to him for an answer.

“I’m a cheap whore, _ma chére_.” He makes it sound delightful. “I’ll do anything for a penny,” he purrs in her ear. “But only for you.”

.

_fin_

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB 300 marks translates into 48000 pennies… and then there’s the accumulated interest :P
> 
> As a parting comment, I’d like to leave you with a handful of ‘fic recs’, those I’ve loved best, and still remember ever so fondly from this wonderful fandom, and occasionally re-read. The first two were probably the greatest in-fandom influence on my Robin Hood plots; back in early 2009, they helped salve the disappointment from the season 2 finale and pulled me into reading fanfics before I tried my hand at writing them.
> 
> _From the Desert to the Tower_ by wintercealde on this site: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290054
> 
> _Fallout_ by Bookishy on FFnet (it is a WIP but fortunately it is quite long as it is, and cuts off at a fortunate plot juncture and on an emotional high): https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4270289/1/Fallout
> 
> And I cannot leave out the deliciously funny _Weekend at Vasey’s_: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4823678/1/Weekend-at-Vasey-s
> 
> …and if you happen to be at all partial to slash, there are two I cannot praise highly enough, _Everything is a Choice_ and its sequel _Endgame_ by Jadey36 on this site:  
https://archiveofourown.org/works/198446  
https://archiveofourown.org/works/205473
> 
> There are countless other good ones, but most of those are stranded in the murky wasteland of Livejournal ☹
> 
> And now I am finally done (what did I know, my once-shortest RH fic has become my now-longest one!)
> 
> Or, in the words of the immortal Leonard Cohen (one of his variations on _Bird on the Wire_ [this version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=boMZEe9v_SA], which would be a perfect theme song to this fic),
> 
> _It’s over, it’s finished, it’s completed, and has, it has been paid for_
> 
> I hope this was fun to read. Thank you to Shezan who prompted it back in 2010, and thank you to everyone who has read, commented, and left kudos here; it brightens up my day to know that people enjoy it <3
> 
> _Ciao e grazie_…or, as Guy would say, _au revoir et merci beaucoup_ 😊  



End file.
